


Impossible to Feign

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Reverse Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leant forward, his long fingers curving round to grip John’s.</p><p>“I won’t let him win,” he said, eyes hard. “I will do whatever it takes to get you out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU Reichenbach fic, with Sherlock and John's roles reversed. Please note the implications before reading. With many thanks to regan_v for excellent beta work, and special gratitude to professorfangirl for last-minute reading, cheerleading and advice. 
> 
> Research on any factual elements of this has been light, but I will revise horrible inaccuracies if they are pointed out to me.
> 
> Please note that although this reaches an end-point, it was originally conceived as the first part of a much longer fic. I never managed to write part 2, and I think it unlikely I now will (late 2016). So warning for unresolved plot lines!

I like a look of Agony,

Because I know it’s true –

Men do not sham Convulsion,

Nor simulate, a Throe –

 

The Eyes glaze once – and that is Death-

Impossible to feign

The Beads upon the Forehead

By homely Anguish strung.

\- Emily Dickinson

**Prologue**

Sherlock walked as rapidly and quietly as he could along the narrow lane, ruts of baked mud underfoot, and tiny scuttering noises on either side as creatures ran from his approach. He wanted to run too, but the ground was too rough; if he tripped and fell, or lost the road in the encompassing darkness, he would have blown his chance. As it was he calculated he had two hours at most before someone next checked whether he was in his room, and the motorway was just over six miles away. Once he got there, frustratingly, he would be reliant on chance and the laws of probability. It was closer through the fields, but four of the farmers on that route kept dogs, and his plan relied on being reasonably presentable when he reached the minor outpost of civilization that the road represented.

Something brushed his face and he flinched away before his mind told him that it was the spidery leaves of a willow. A willow: weeping willow; dappled sunlight on the Cherwell, Parson’s Pleasure; mourning brooches; sing willow, willow; all around my hat, I will wear – no, not that; Ophelia; Tate; the Embankment - no, _no_. He walked on through the already familiar flare of pain. It was essential to find a way not to think: that was the only plan he had left. If Mycroft thought that shutting him up in the depths of the French countryside would keep him from old habits, then he clearly didn’t know enough about how Sherlock had spent his twentysomething summers. The lane seemed endless. Irrational to have such thoughts when he knew perfectly well that he would hit the road, if you could call it such, that led through the village in approximately 0.6 miles, had known it much of his life. Interesting, the disorienting effect of near-total darkness, he should perhaps have experimented more with it, not that it could be done in - 

There was the road dimly glimmering. Sherlock let out a breath that was almost a sob, then grimaced to himself. He was aware that he was shivering despite the warmth of the summer night. But he had reached the road: the surface might be rough, but surely he could run. Only three farms on the road and they all chained up their beasts – two Alsatians and a generic black mongrel – by night. No matter anyway, his nursemaids at the farm would hardly imagine he’d decided to stroll into the village for a game of midnight boules, so whatever stir his passing made, now or later, the main road was the only option.

Fifty-seven minutes later, he’d reached the road. Six more miles to the layby and café where the trucks stopped. Or holding up a car, out of the few passing at this time of night, but he had nothing, and any ordinary driver seeing a man waving from the roadside would speed up, not stop for him. He knew he had to do the six miles, he’d worked it out, factoring in the time it would take to steal or fashion a convincing weapon, the route he could drive, the ways he could get petrol as needed without having any cash or cards. It wasn’t worth it. He’d be too easy to trace, and Mycroft’s lackeys would be waiting at the other end. But a bored lorry driver, wanting company for the Paris-Marseille route, by the time they thought of that, Sherlock would be at least temporarily off the radar. And it had the bonus of being the kind of low-key and low-class plan that would take a while to occur to Mycroft. He would have to alternate running and walking, he was frustratingly out of condition, and the espadrilles he had chosen to fit his role were too thin.

If he were caught, it would be here or at the layby, if it proved empty. It would be humiliating, to be brought back like a child running away from home. They weren’t stupid, this time round, Mycroft’s minders, much as he disliked admitting it. He had had no opportunity to find or steal even loose change, let alone ID, his or anyone else’s – theirs would all be fake, he assumed – or credit cards. Thus he had been reduced to this, to a plan contingent on chance and on the one resource he had left.

But he was in luck. There was one lorry, grand camion, pulled up, company name Estande on the side, local, then, a small firm. The driver was leaning against the cab smoking a cigarette. Sherlock walked over, deliberately noisy, stopping just inside the light from the cab.

“Evening,” he said, smiling apologetically and slouching a little, casual. It had been a while since he’d needed to give his French the tinge of a local accent, but he was pleased to hear that it still sounded convincing. “Are you going to Marseille? I could really use a lift”.

“Perhaps,” said the driver, looking him over. “What’s your hurry?”

“I’m a student,” said Sherlock. “Home for the holidays. Just had a major row with the family, you know how it is. I need to get out of this shithole and back to Marseille.”

“Family, eh,” said the driver. “I might be going that way.” He looked Sherlock over slowly; Sherlock maintained his pose, trying to look young and unthreatening.

“I’d offer to pay you, but I’m a bit short of cash,” he said. The driver’s eyes flickered, and he grunted, flicking his cigarette to the ground. Sherlock hesitated, like someone who couldn’t foretell what decision was coming: his nervousness was only half-acted.

“Get in then,” said the driver, pulling himself up. “Five hours or so, you might as well keep me awake.”

“Brilliant, thanks,” said Sherlock, going round to the other side of the cab and pulling himself up easily.

He surprised himself by falling asleep, the driver’s monologue about the price of fuel and the iniquities of the government strangely soothing. When he woke, they were pulling into another lay-by, the night black around them

“Couple of hours to go,” said the driver. “We’ll have a break here, take a piss.”

Sherlock nodded and opened his door. The driver headed off into the bushes at the side of the road. The countryside was still and black around them, only the occasional car going past. Sherlock’s mouth was dry: he should have thought to carry water. His heart was beating a little faster too, he noted, with annoyance. There was no need for nervousness. People could be unpredictable when it came to this, but there were certain tells, and this driver should be a safe bet. This was his best option. He had of necessity left with no money, no cards, no phone and no ID. As far as he’d been able to establish, nothing of his had even come to France with him. But he didn’t want to waste any time on arrival in Marseille. He needed cash, urgently.

He ran through his alternatives again, a final test. Simple robbery seemed the most straightforward, but the driver kept his wallet in his back jeans pocket, so pickpocketing it while he was driving would be virtually impossible, and if he simply knocked him out and took it and the truck, he could hardly hope to hide for long even if he managed to drive it into the city without incident. The last thing he needed was to be on the police radar, given his intentions. And the truck driver was fairly burly, he wouldn’t give in without a fight, with the attendant risks of injury, and he wouldn’t be easy to intimidate. And in any of these options, he would have a vested interest in pursuing Sherlock or at the very least describing him to others.

There were no flaws in his reasoning. Sherlock went round to the driver’s side and leant against the door, one leg bent, wishing for a cigarette. The driver came out of the bushes, lighting one up. He looked at Sherlock’s pose warily.

“Like I said, I’m short on cash,” said Sherlock. “I need fifty euros.” He ran the fingers of one hand over his lips, and watched the driver’s eyes follow the movement. Good. He softened his voice. “I’ll suck your cock for that, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

 “Fifty, eh,” said the driver. He took another drag on his cigarette, speculative. Sherlock kept his pose loose, unthreatening, though all his muscles wanted to tense up.

“Fucking fags,” said the driver, dropping his cigarette and crushing it. “Fifty. Round the back, come on.”

Sherlock swallowed and followed him. This was success, this was getting to Marseille with just enough cash to find Lucien and get started on oblivion. In the city he could steal more, he could disappear, he wouldn’t need to do this again unless he wanted to. It was a practical solution, and one that didn’t involve causing injury; though as he knelt on the stony ground and made short work of the driver’s fly, all the ways in which he could disable him ran through his mind in a rapid stutter of images. The last time he’d done this – But that was an untenable thought. He needed to be quick, efficient, skilled; it was entirely irrational to care at all about the petty engagements of the flesh. He got to work, welcoming the flare of pain as the driver grunted and pulled at his hair, choking him.

There was after all a vicious satisfaction in his position, in his voluntary degradation. John would have been furious with him. He would have got that look, that pained look that said that Sherlock wasn’t living up to the ridiculously idealistic notions John had of him; he would have sworn and shouted at him; he would have clenched his fists and asked Sherlock what the fuck he was thinking; he would have done whatever it took to stop Sherlock behaving as he was doing, as he planned to do.

But John was dead. What he thought, what he _had_ thought, was entirely irrelevant. And the sooner Sherlock could get the chemical assistance to dismiss it from his traitorous mind, the better.

The driver grunted a warning above him, loosening his hold, and Sherlock pulled off, semen striping his cheek. He got up, brushing his cheek with one hand, knees aching, and showed the driver the wallet in the other.  His eyes widened comically, but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered playing: he took out a fifty and tossed the wallet back.

“Marseille,” he said. “Let’s get going,” and he headed back to the cab.

***

**One month previously**

John stirred. Something was nagging him out of a pleasant dream, pulling him upwards, a familiar sound. He surfaced from sleep enough to identify it as Sherlock’s phone. It kept ringing, from somewhere unidentifiable in the bedroom, probably in the mass of clothes that Sherlock had discarded earlier. John groaned expressively, and stretched one leg out to find cold sheets and empty space. Sherlock was up doing something then, and the bastard had left his phone on and lying around somewhere where John couldn’t reach it without leaving the warm bed. The phone cut out, and then started ringing again almost instantly. John pulled the duvet over his ears and ignored it until it stopped. Then, after a minute or two of blessed silence, his own mobile started buzzing frantically from the bedside table. Giving in, he scrabbled for it.

“Hello?” he said, sleep-roughened. Light was slanting through the curtains, so at least it was early morning rather than the middle of the night. He turned the clock round to face him: nearly 8:30am. But then, he hadn’t gone to sleep until well after two.

“Is that Dr Watson?” said a quavering voice.

“Speaking,” said John, not masking his irritation very well.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the woman. She sounded as though she might be crying, though the line was bad, it was hard to tell. “Emma said if I couldn’t get through to Sherlock I was to try you, I don’t know what to do, I’ve been ringing and ringing his phone – ”

“It’s OK,” said John. Must be a client, no point offending her. “Look, the line’s not great, I can’t hear you well, but just hold on and I’ll see if I can find him for you.” He got out of bed as he spoke, lifting his dressing-gown from the back of the door one-handed and shrugging it on: the flat was freezing as usual.

He tried the bathroom first and hit the jackpot, Sherlock was in the bath, reading. Even after ten or so months, John still felt a small prickle of lust at seeing him like that, unselfconsciously naked, all of him on display.

“Phone for you,” he said. He passed it over, wondering if Sherlock might want to come back to bed after his bath. Sherlock raised one eyebrow a couple of centimetres; John nodded: client. Then Sherlock’s eyes flicked over John in a way that meant: yes, provisionally.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the phone. John could faintly hear the woman squawking, frantically. He went to the sink and started brushing his teeth, might as well be optimistic about his chances of a morning shag.

“She _what_?” said Sherlock. John turned to see him heaving himself out of the bath, water surging. “Start again, and if you want me to be of any genuine help, try to restrict yourself to exact details.” He met John’s eyes briefly in the mirror as he grabbed a towel.

“What’s going on?” said John, but Sherlock was listening intently, barely draped in the towel and on his way out of the room. John put down his toothbrush and followed.

“No, don’t try to explain any more,” Sherlock was saying, as John caught up with him in the sitting-room. He was leaning over his laptop impatiently, “In fact, don’t do anything, don’t talk to anyone, _especially_ not the police, and don’t even think about lawyers until I get there. In fact, don’t leave your room. I’ll meet you there.”  He hung up decisively and started typing in a web address, dripping on the keys.

“Who was that?” said John.

“You didn’t recognize her voice?” said Sherlock, without looking round. “No, of course you didn’t, forget I even asked. That – ” he reached a leg back and hooked one of the desk chairs round his ankle, seemingly without looking, pulled it forward and sat down, “was Janet Harrison.” He looked round, alight with barely restrained excitement and something else that John couldn’t identify. John must still have been looking a bit bemused, because Sherlock sighed at him.

“ _Janet_. Mrs Hudson’s sister. Calling from Las Vegas, where Mrs Hudson has just been arrested for murder.”

“What?” said John. “You mean, our Mrs Hudson? Murder?”

“As opposed to all the other Mrs Hudsons in this kingdom, who do not happen to be currently on holiday in Las Vegas with their sister Janet, yes, I do,” said Sherlock, but without maximum bite. “Damn it, I know Virgin has a flight this afternoon; this isn’t loading properly.”

John leaned over and against his shoulder, impressed by his urgency. “Here,” he said, moving Sherlock’s hand off the mouse, refreshing the site, and then clicking the button to start the booking process. Sherlock slid out from the chair and started pacing, and John sat down.

“Dry yourself, you’ll get a chill.”  He put in the date, and then hesitated over the return.

“Give me, oh, four days, “said Sherlock. “I’ll go alone.” He was still making no effort to dry off even though his skin was visibly goosebumped.

“OK,” said John, putting in the date, clicking ‘1’ and hitting return. He tried to sound entirely unfazed, but Sherlock was looking at him keenly.

“We have those two other cases. For which, as you pointed out yesterday, we need to be paid if we want to eat anything other than baked beans on toast this month. You can meet the clients and then relay the important details. And you have work and social plans for today and Harry’s birthday dinner tomorrow.”

John hmmed. Sherlock knew his diary better than he did, which was irritating and warming in equal measure. He still felt a little hurt, but Sherlock had a point about the cases. The page loaded.

“Bloody hell, these are expensive. Which do you want? And I’m putting this on the emergency credit card from Mycroft, right?”

“Soon as possible, fully flexible. You can join me on Monday if things prove more complicated than I anticipate.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, which should be from cold but was probably, John thought, from some combination of anticipation and anxiety.

“So is Mrs H OK? What exactly happened?”

John selected the flights and then opened the desk drawer and fished around until he felt hard plastic. Sherlock liked to pretend that the credit card that Mycroft had given him didn’t exist, though he tolerated John using it for case-related purposes.

“I don’t _know_ ,” said Sherlock. “Mrs Hudson found in a hotel room with a corpse, promptly arrested, sister too hysterical to produce any kind of consistent narrative.” He scowled. “Mrs Hudson would have known exactly what I needed.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with her ex?” John still hadn’t heard the full story there.

“Possible,” Sherlock allowed. “Though I never heard that his operations extended that far west, and his associates would have had to be playing a very long game….” He trailed off into muttering.

John finished making the reservation. “There,” he said, standing up. “I’ve given you three hours to get to the airport, so you need to pack; and for god’s sake get some clothes on.”

Sherlock let the towel slide to the ground. “You could help me dress,” he said.

“Not a hope in hell. Come off it, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson’s in serious trouble, and we need you out of here in half an hour or you’ll never make the flight.” 

Sherlock twisted one corner of his mouth slightly, in the way that meant he accepted John’s point but would never admit it, then walked off to his room, dignified despite the chill.  John sighed and started getting together stuff Sherlock might need that was lying about the sitting-room – credit card, wallet, phone charger, laptop charger, passport from between two books on the mantelpiece, some cash transferred from his own wallet.

Sherlock emerged twenty minutes later, immaculately put together, just as John was starting to glance at the clock. He set his leather holdall on the table and then picked up the small pile of things John had collected and unceremoniously dumped them in it, swung on his coat, and then hesitated.

“John,” he said, and inclined his head towards John’s hands, which seemed to be clenched on the back of the kitchen chair.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea. You going on your own.” He’d been trying not to wind himself up while he sorted out Sherlock’s stuff, but it hadn’t worked too well. “If it does turn out to be dangerous, I’m too far away.” He loosened his hands deliberately, crossing his arms.

“I should be able to solve it quickly, even with the colossal idiocy of Americans to contend with,” said Sherlock.

“There’s no point asking you to be careful, is there. But keep in touch. I don’t like – just let me know where you are and what’s going on, and that you and Mrs H are OK, alright?”

Sherlock walked over to him, swift steps, and for a moment John almost thought he was going to hug him; he dropped his arms, half-defensive. Sherlock stopped, crowded into John’s space, slid a hand round the back of his head, and kissed him. John opened his mouth and the kiss deepened, the slide of their tongues together familiar but no less thrilling for it.

Sherlock broke off first, leaning his forehead against John’s, breathing slightly unevenly. “I should be back on Monday,” he said. “Maybe Tuesday. With our landlady. If I text from Heathrow, you could easily be – prepared for my return.”

“If I’m not busy solving your bloody cases for you,” said John, but he reached up and brushed Sherlock’s curls away. “Get going. No time for snogging in the kitchen. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Plenty of leeway there, then,” said Sherlock, and he kissed John again quickly and then headed out.

“Keep your phone charged,” John shouted after him, but he couldn’t tell if Sherlock had heard. He exhaled loudly and then looked around, at the suddenly empty and silent flat, then he went to the window to see if he could see Sherlock getting into a cab. But he must have found one instantly, because he was nowhere to be seen. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter I'm afraid but I will aim to post the next mid-week!

Sherlock sat at the bar, pretending to sip an overpriced Martini and watching for his quarry. He’d had a satisfactory day on the whole, he thought. The airport had been moderately engaging, though John’s absence when Sherlock turned to tell him gleefully about the four people he’d spotted who had genuine reasons to flee the country had been irritating. Of course, John would probably have suggested that he tell airport security about the drug smuggler, and the should-be asylum seeker, there to meet his wife, who also had a fake passport, would likely have been living at their expense in Baker St if John had any inkling of his past at the hands of the Syrian security forces.

But then John was still not there on the flight, which was boring beyond belief. For some ridiculous reason he had booked him into an economy seat – what was the point of using Mycroft’s card if not to annoy him with the greatest possible expenses? – and then wasn’t there to complain to. Though at least his absence meant that Sherlock could self-medicate with a couple of tranquillizers and some vodka, which had made the rest of the flight and immigration pass in a mildly unpleasant muffled haze.

Las Vegas was as horrific as he’d anticipated. He’d checked in at the truly hideous hotel that Mrs Hudson and sister had apparently chosen, sent John five pictures of its carpets, which he hadn’t deigned to respond to, washed away the remnants of the pills with several espressos and while doing so established that Janet was as hopeless as he’d suspected and entirely incapable of telling him anything he didn’t already know.

Luckily, the duty guard at the prison where Mrs Hudson was awaiting a bail hearing was inclined to be overly impressed that her impeccably English lawyer had flown all the way out to assist her. Sherlock frowned and tapped on the bar. He intensely disliked seeing Mrs Hudson in distress, it was unacceptable, and it made it imperative that whoever had caused this distress should be identified and dealt with as rapidly as possible. But despite her gratitude for his presence and his assurance that he’d get her out, he was beginning to suspect that Mycroft’s assistance might be needed, if only to provide hefty amounts of bail money. Mycroft had rung him four times already, which indicated he was already aware of this fact and only hesitating over which form of interference would be best.

The case itself was straightforward. Mrs Hudson and sister had met a charming elderly Texan man over their dinner, and when Janet had retired to bed Mrs Hudson had accepted an invitation to go back to his room for a nightcap. Sherlock’s scowl deepened as he contemplated this. Once in his room, she’d gone into the bathroom to freshen up, and when she came out a few minutes later, he was on the floor, one shot to the head, his surprisingly large casino winnings spread out beside him. At that moment room service had arrived with a bottle of wine, noted a fresh corpse with a woman standing over it, and drawn the obvious conclusion.

So: a quick, efficient killing, fast and daring, no interest in making it look like suicide. Whether the killer had known or cared that someone else was in the room was the questionable point. Mrs Hudson thought she might have heard a knock on the door and a bang that would have been the shot, but she’d been running the taps and hadn’t recognized it for what it was. And the gun belonged legitimately to the victim, and had been sitting on a bedside table in plain sight. Somewhat unfortunately, he’d shown it to Mrs Hudson when they came into the room, telling her he never travelled without it. Even more unfortunately, she’d picked it up for a look, admiring the custom details or what have you that he was telling her about. The killer would almost certainly have wiped his or her fingerprints or used gloves, but still, if the police had a trace of Mrs Hudson’s prints they would run wild with it.

To sum up: only one person alive in the room, and she was on file as being the widow of a murdering gangland boss, all she could produce was a story of a mystery assassin that no-one with an iota of sense would credit, case closed. Sherlock might have already sent several texts to John complaining about the idiocy of the LVMPD, but he could grudgingly admit to himself that they had a certain, albeit small, amount of justification in making the arrest.

However. After an hour online satisfying himself that no-one connected with Mrs Hudson’s former husband was anywhere near the area, Sherlock had been free to turn his attention to the waiter who’d brought the wine. Mrs Hudson’s estimate of the timing and his own calculations of the distance from lift or stairs to room door left only three possibilities: the waiter had seen the murderer leave, the murderer had concealed himself rapidly in one of the neighbouring rooms, or – Sherlock’s preferred option – the waiter was the murderer. His attempts to inveigle himself with the staff had been remarkably successful. Amazing what excellent Spanish and large quantities of dollars produced. Sherlock’s frown faded a bit. He’d been pleased with himself for identifying Raul Fernandez as the waiter in question without even having to access the police files, and by his efficiency in breaking into the staff room and picking the lock on his locker. Accessing his bank accounts by cracking his password had been child’s play, since he’d helpfully left ATM receipts, a check and a photo of his children with names and the date written on the back in his bag. And when Sherlock had seen the deposit of $25000, it had been immediately clear that he was either looking at the accounts of the killer or an accomplice. All that was needed was to get him to talk, which he was confident he could achieve as soon as Fernandez was back on shift at 10pm.

All in all, satisfying, if perhaps a little too easy. He didn’t, strictly speaking, need to know motive, but it would be still be more satisfactory to find out that Randall Mackenzie had had a jealous ex-wife who had hired a contract killer, or had attracted the enmity of someone else with more money than sense. That way, all questions of Mrs Hudson’s involvement could be neatly laid to rest. No doubt Fernandez would provide before Sherlock was finished with him, but in the meantime he needed to pump the grieving relatives – who were finally arriving, by the look of it.

His phone rang again. He took it out too quickly: Mycroft yet again, damn him. He stabbed at the phone crossly, hanging up, and then turned it off. 4am in London. John would be asleep, hopefully in Sherlock’s bed, missing him. Mycroft could wait until after Sherlock had solved the case, which with any luck he would have done by midnight.

He pasted on a suitably downcast expression, slid off the stool, and started to make his way over to Mr Mackenzie’s sister and his two grown-up daughters.

By the time he’d escaped their clutches and was in the lift back to his room, his mood had darkened, and the edges of jetlag were threatening. His eyes felt gritty and half-closed. He’d accomplished nothing useful. Mr Mackenzie had been a much-loved and highly paid family dentist in Dallas, and a fairly attentive member of a local Baptist congregation. After his wife died of cancer he’d been inconsolable for several years, but other than this he’d been in every possible way distressingly normal, up to his pleasure in hunting and shooting things on a family ranch in the heart of Texas. His family had backed up all the information Sherlock had been able to dredge up online, and provided nothing new. Everything from their earrings to their vowel sounds proclaimed them bewilderingly at sea in a world that involved violent death.

No, there had to be something he was missing, some piece of Mackenzie’s blameless life that didn’t fit. There was something – something Janet had said, in between her endless tears – something half-remembered that hovered at the edge of his consciousness, shining with significance. The lift stopped at his floor and he walked to his room, mentally rehearsing the morning’s conversation. Skip the childhood reminiscences, skip the bewilderment, skip the how-could-this-have-happened to us – no, wait. The phone on the bedside table was ringing as he came into the room, but Sherlock ignored it, unhearing. The hotel, something about the hotel.

He walked to the window and looked out, he’d been standing here, and Janet had been sitting on the bed, literally wringing her hands and saying, through her tears “ and when we heard” – no, “and when we saw that they’d booked us in here, we were so thrilled.” That was it. Shit, he’d been unforgivably slow, this whole day and he’d never thought to ask – The phone was ringing again, or maybe it had never stopped, but Sherlock was already half-out the door, twenty seconds and four doors down, and he was knocking on Janet’s.

“Oh, what is it?” she said, quavering, peering round the door at him, clutching the edges of her dressing gown. “Is it news? You gave me a turn, knocking at this time.”

Sherlock pushed at the door impatiently and then strode into the room. “Who are ‘they’?” he said. “Come on, come on, you said ‘they’ booked you in here. What did you mean?”

“They?” Janet looked bewildered. “It was the magazine, _Woman’s Own_ , they said they’d chosen the hotel specially, it was a staff favourite, oh, I never thought something like this would happen here, how could we have known?” She was perilously close to tears again already.

Sherlock made a sound of frustration. He could _see_ Mrs Hudson standing in the kitchen at 221B, waving a letter from her sister and talking to John excitedly, but that was it.  “Damn it,” he said. “I think I deleted this, and I didn’t _think_ – Look, stop snivelling and help your sister, for God’s sake, just tell me _exactly_ how this, this magazine paid for your trip.” He held himself back from shaking her, but only just.

Janet sat down on the edge of the bed abruptly. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t entered that competition, but of course I never imagined for a moment I’d ever win it, I’ve never won anything.”

“You won a competition,” said Sherlock. “Come on.” He tried to gentle his tone. “Was it in the magazine?”

One of the phones in the room started ringing. Janet started, and Sherlock closed his eyes in a moment of pure frustration. He was going to kill Mycroft.

“Oh, I should get that, it might be about Emma – “ said Janet, half-rising. The phone stopped, and then a moment later started again.

“Please. Leave the phone, it’s nothing. Anything you can remember.”

“About the competition? Is it important? It wasn’t in the magazine, it was one of those special deals they send out, only for valued customers. I’m a subscriber, I get _Woman’s Own_ delivered every week, have done for years, so they picked me to enter the draw.”

“So you got a letter about a competition, purporting to be from your favourite magazine, and the prize was a trip to Las Vegas, and you won it and brought your only living relative as the plus one. And when she was thrown into jail, you called me.”

Janet was nodding and saying something, but she didn’t need to. He’d half-known since he’d left his room, but that wasn’t the same as having confirmation. Cold dread hit him, the implications unspooling through his brain. He walked over to the phone, and picked it up.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You haven’t seen the news.”

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock. He’d meant it as a question, but it hadn’t come out that way. He swallowed with difficulty round the hard lump of John’s name in his throat. The remote control was beside the phone, he fumbled it with fingers turned clumsy and pointed it at the television. It came on, CNN. Sherlock blinked at it, trying to get the words running across the bottom of the screen into focus.

“John is unhurt,” said Mycroft. “I haven’t spoken to him as yet, but I’ve been assured he’s not – not in any way harmed, he’s simply under arrest.”

A picture of John flashed up on the screen, a younger picture, Afghanistan, in uniform, smiling at the camera. Sherlock stabbed at the volume button and the announcer’s voice rose suddenly –

 “ – and to return to our top international news story, the man arrested on Saturday afternoon in London on suspicion of his involvement in the 2008 Ghazni atrocity has been identified as John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Watson has not yet commented on the allegations made by former army colleague Sebastian Moran that he was the mystery soldier behind these killings, which shocked the world, and, as we all recall, led to the August 2008 torture and murder of four US soldiers in a so-called reprisal attack. We’ll be taking an in-depth look at developing events in just one hour, so stay tuned.”

“Get me home,” said Sherlock into the phone.

“You have a ticket waiting for you at the airport to Newark and then London, last flight out today,” said Mycroft. He hesitated. “This line is not secure. We will speak then. Exercise caution.”

Sherlock hung up. Janet’s mouth was opening and closing but he couldn’t hear her, everything was fragmenting. He shook his head to clear it, he needed to concentrate.

“I have to go,” he said.

“What?” said Janet. “But where are you going, what about Emma? You only just arrived. Oh, you can’t just leave us here!”

Sherlock paused at the door.

“She’ll know why,” he said. A thought occurred to him and he focused on Janet briefly. She was insignificant to him, but she meant something to Mrs Hudson, John wouldn’t like it if he didn’t warn her.

“Be careful. Stay in public places, don’t talk to strangers. It might be dangerous. Warn your sister” – though she would hardly need warning once she heard, he hoped.

Janet started babbling something panicked, but Sherlock didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He was going to do everything in his power to get John out of this mess, he was going to succeed, but until he did, all else was insignificant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mid-week update as promised! Thank you for the comments, very inspiring as always.

John lay on the bed, arms loose by his sides, practising steady breathing. The ceiling above him was poorly whitewashed stone with a large damp stain in it, but John was seeing past it, to an impossibly blue sky with vultures wheeling in it, sun beating down, scent of dry herbs in his nostrils. Up in the hills, two miles above the nearest tiny village. A guilty moment of peace in the middle of the chaos and boredom of war.

There was a bang on the door. “Visitor for you, Watson.”

John’s pulse sped, but he tried to calm it. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, opening the door.

The guard didn’t speak, just nodded to follow him. John did. He could sense some of the other inmates watching him, and hear a couple of whispers, but none pitched to reach him. He had spoken to no-one since his arrival, in the small hours of the morning. He’d half-expected to be sent to the MCTC in Colchester – he’d been aware, through the numb feeling of shock and unreality, of debates over his destination swirling around him – and he wasn’t sure whether Wormwood Scrubs was preferable or not. At least it was closer to central London, and they had put him in a room on his own. He held himself straight, shoulders back, chin up. They went out of the block, threaded through a maze of institutional corridors, and reached a visitors’ room, unpleasantly overheated, small windows too high to see out of, painted an institutional dark green and filled with chairs and tables, like a classroom, except that the chairs were on both sides of the desk. There were vending machines lining one wall. The room was empty. John swallowed. The guard motioned to him to sit at one of the tables in the centre, and he did.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” the guard told him. “This is an exception or something, you wouldn’t usually be allowed visitors outside normal hours, unless they’re your lawyer.” John jerked his head in an approximation of a nod, all he could manage. He was trying not to hope – it wasn’t impossible that Mycroft, or Harry even, had hired him a lawyer, or it could be either of them. Las Vegas was a long way.

Then the door opened, and Sherlock walked in. There was a falter in his step when he saw John, but then he walked over, pulled out the chair opposite with a flourish, and sat down. He had an attempt at his best poker face on, but John had all of Sherlock’s expressions by heart, and though he hadn’t seen this one in the months after Moriarty and the pool, he recognized it. Sherlock was terrified, but also determined, bent on something.

John held himself still for a moment, waiting for the fierce need to grab Sherlock and hold him to dissipate, and then deliberately caught Sherlock’s eyes and slid one hand across the table. Sherlock flicked a glance at the guard, who was leaning against the wall by the door looking bored, and then slid his hand across to touch John’s.  They looked at each other.

“I’m,” said John. He cleared his throat. “How was Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock ignored this. There were purple shadows under his eyes and they were reddened with exhaustion. “John,” he said. “I should never have left. It was inexcusable that it took me almost a day to realize – “

“Wait, realize what?”

Sherlock looked down at the table, breathing deeply, obviously agitated. John slid his hand a bit further forward, to cover Sherlock’s.

“It was a set-up,” Sherlock said. “Mrs Hudson was framed. Moriarty” – he glanced at the guard again and lowered his voice – “he knew I would go out there. The timing was deliberate. He must have been planning this for months.”

“Shit,” said John. He’d suspected, of course, but Moran had always been a loose cannon and John had been trying to tell himself that maybe he’d just acted on an old, unnoticed grudge. For a moment he felt the phantom weight of Moriarty’s bomb vest on his shoulders. And he’d thought that had been bad.

Sherlock leant forward, his long fingers curving round to grip John’s.

“I won’t let him win,” he said, eyes hard. “I will do whatever it takes to get you out.”

“He,” said John, and had to stop and swallow. “Last time. He won then. And with Irene. Sherlock, I don’t think you should worry about me right now, you need to worry about yourself. It’s you he wants – I’m just – Mrs H and me, we’re just – collateral damage.”

“No,” said Sherlock, absolute. “Not an option.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” said John. “I can take care of myself, here. I can’t have – I _will not_ _have_ you running round London after Moriarty, are you listening to me? God knows what he has planned. Look at what’s happened already, for fuck’s sake. You need to get your brother to take you to a, to a safe-house or something, let his men do the work.”

“Really.” Sherlock leant closer, mirroring John’s pose. “And when would I emerge from this safe-house? When Mrs Hudson and you have been convicted? Like you say, it’s me he wants. Whatever it takes, John.” His eyes were implacable.

“No,” said John, too loudly. He’d been proud of how well he was holding himself together, in the circumstances, but Sherlock as always was eroding his defences, and the helplessness he felt at seeing him ready to hand himself over to Moriarty was choking him, closing his throat. Sherlock’s expression changed to concern: John knew his feelings were showing on his face.

The guard shifted audibly. John closed his eyes for a second and forced it back down. Sherlock was gripping his fingers so tightly that it hurt.

“John,” he said. “We don’t have time now. I need you to tell me – to tell me anything that will help. Mycroft doesn’t even have the full story. The press are – ”

“I know, I know,” said John. “OK.” He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “I haven’t told anyone this. I didn’t know what I should say to the police, so I didn’t say anything.”

Sherlock nodded, go on.

John lowered his voice. “It was when I was on leave, for a week. 2008. I’d met Moran, Sebastian Moran, in Kabul a couple of times, he was doing private security then, and we’d – well, we got drunk together and talked about going off into the hills, exploring, target practice; he reckoned himself as one of the best shots in Afghanistan, so it was sort of a bet between us, that we’d see what he could do. It was just a vague plan, but then I’d a bit of leave due and it didn’t seem worth going home, so I looked him up and we set up the trip, just us.”

He looked at Sherlock, who was taking this in, intently, not even interrupting for once.

“We chose a fairly remote area, and we were only going for a day and a night, getting away from the city. It wasn’t safe but it wasn’t stupidly dangerous, either. I didn’t know him that well and I didn’t trust him, but there were a lot of men like him in Kabul round then, and he didn’t seem – he was no different to anyone else.” He shrugged, defensively.

“We got a lift down the main road that night, then walked, I don’t know how many miles but a fair few, to this tiny village, got them to sell us some supplies, and then headed up into the hills above it. Found a shady spot, practised shooting empty water bottles off the rocks, lay around and drank some whisky – that was it, really. There was no-one up there, not even a goatherd. Just empty hills. I didn’t even know the name of the village. We didn’t go back that way either, we walked over the hills and down to the road by another route, waited for our ride there.”

John rubbed his neck. Sherlock stirred, impatient.

“No, I don’t know if he was there all night. It was pitch-black, but he had one of those headlamp things, we both did, just in case. When I went to sleep he was still sitting by the fire, finishing the last of the whisky, and when I woke up it was dawn and he was in his sleeping-bag a few yards away.” He looked at Sherlock. “I didn’t hear until three days later, that was how long it took to – to reach the press, and I didn’t twig that it could have been the village we’d been through until nearly a week later.” He pressed his lips together. “And by that time – Look, compared to some of the people I met out there – compared to some of the _soldiers_ out there, Moran was normal. Every single newspaper, they all reported that the locals had seen a group of Americans in the area. A group, not two men. I didn’t even – I didn’t even know if it _was_ the same village.”

“But it was,” said Sherlock.

“Christ,” said John, rubbing his face. “If you’ve got access to Moran’s statement, you already know as much as I do. What Moran told the police, what they said he’s told them, it’s all true, every detail. Except for the part where I went down to the village after dark and committed a fucking war crime. They sold us bread and cheese, for Christ’s sake, the kids were hiding round the corner and giggling at us, it was a good place. They weren’t the fucking Taliban.  I couldn’t believe he could’ve done it.”

“John,” said Sherlock. He paused. “If you had known – ”

“I _didn’t know_ , Sherlock. If I had – you think I would have protected him? From that?”

Sherlock’s eyes were steady on him.

“No,” said John. “He wasn’t my friend, but even if he had been. You know that.”

Sherlock nodded, once. The guard cleared his throat. “Five minutes, gentlemen,” he said.

“That’s all?” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “There’s nothing, is there.” He looked at Sherlock, half-hoping.

Sherlock grimaced. He let go of John’s hand and tugged at his hair, a familiar gesture that hurt John’s heart. “Not so far,” he said. “I would have to go out there. Look at the scene, try to reconstruct…get witnesses to talk.”

“Do you think Moran could have been – was he working for Moriarty back then? I mean, I understand why _he_ wants me here but I don’t know what the hell Moran’s doing.”

“Money,” said Sherlock, absently, mind clearly thousands of miles away. “Or power, or both. I don’t know what he’s been promised for this, but don’t worry, I intend to find out. He’s in police protection, but that shouldn’t represent a problem. Once I locate him - ” He snapped back to the present, looking at John, clear and cold. “Once I find him, I can discuss his so-called confession with him in person. And that will give me the means to prove its falsity.”

John met his gaze. Sherlock’s look was challenging, daring John to call him off, but if he thought John was going to object to whatever he planned to do to Moran, he had another think coming.

“Good,” said John, defiant. “But you’re looking for him, not for his boss. Watch out for yourself first. Sherlock – Sherlock, look at me. You’re no use to me, you’re no use to any of us, if he has you, if you’re – ”

“Right, that’s it,” said the guard. “Come on, Watson, time’s up.”

Sherlock pushed back his chair and stood up, as did John. Then Sherlock surprised him by reaching out and laying a hand on his cheek, in a gentle caress, more intimate than any kiss could have been. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The guard coughed pointedly, and Sherlock dropped his hand. “I’ll come again as soon as I can,” he said, low, and then turned round and strode for the door, before John had a chance to respond.

John didn’t register the guard muttering about fucking poofs and John’s posh boyfriend, he barely registered the walk back to his cell and the door closing on him. He sat down on the narrow bed, aware that he was trembling, letting himself shake with fear, for the first time, for Sherlock and himself. Seeing Sherlock, like that – letting Sherlock leave, knowing that he would almost certainly seek out Moriarty, that he would throw himself into something incredibly stupid – he obviously hadn’t even slept since John had last seen him.

Sherlock hadn’t been apologizing that he’d missed John’s arrest, he’d been apologizing _in advance_ because whatever he thought was going on, it involved Sherlock doing something that John would have physically stopped him from doing. And John had known there was no immediate way to disprove Moran’s statement, but hearing Sherlock as good as admit it had still thrown him. He’d been hoping for some kind of miracle, for Sherlock to waltz in and say that he or Mycroft had sorted it all out and John was free to go.

He lay down and put an arm over his face, trying to breathe. He knew that Moriarty didn’t care about him, that he simply represented leverage, but the sheer terrifying helplessness of his position hadn’t hit him fully before. Sherlock’s hand on his cheek. They’d had sex, they’d slept in the same bed, and John only now thought how reckless and stupid that had been, he had been. He had never put a name to all the complicated things he felt for Sherlock, let alone really tried to work out what Sherlock felt for him. He’d always known that Sherlock had his back. He’d known they were friends, friends who had fallen into bed together one heady night and discovered that sex was so good between them that it made nothing but sense to keep doing it. John had thought many times in the early days that he should stop it, he should let Sherlock know that he really wasn’t gay: then a month or so had passed and he’d moved on to a vague impression that one day Sherlock would get bored, or John would finally meet the right woman, and then they’d go back to being friends, with luck. Mycroft had been right that Sherlock’s London was a battlefield, and if there was one thing that being in battle had taught John, it was that you should enjoy whatever you had right now, and worry about the next day when it came.

And all the time, Moriarty had been watching them and concluding that John was becoming an even better weapon than he’d been the first time round. Sherlock had left Mrs Hudson – and John knew, if he knew anything about Sherlock, that he loved her in his own way – he’d left her in serious trouble on the other side of the world to get back to John, to do something desperate to help him. John would have died for Sherlock, because Sherlock was worth it, he saved lives, no-one else could ever replace him. But it had never really occurred to him that Sherlock might feel anything remotely similar about him. Until the look on his face, just now.

*******

After he left the prison and got into the back of the black car idling immediately outside, Sherlock finally let his shoulders unstiffen. His mind was racing, but not to any advantage, and he was physically affected, more so than he could remember being in a long time. He catalogued his own symptoms: clammy sweat, heart racing, short breath and tightness in the chest, eyes damp, hands trembling. Exhaustion, anxiety. Fear. Whenever he experienced fear, it was in relation to John. In a rational world, this should have made John less valuable, not more. This was not the first time he had had this thought. He had not wanted John to see his fear: it was very important that John trusted him to sort this out. He swallowed. He was not – his thinking was disjointed, cut-off. John was in prison. It was going to be very, very difficult to get him out by legal means. This was a challenge, then, an opportunity to show his brilliance. John was strong. He would be fine. But he was in prison, and it was going to be very difficult to get him out. By legal means. But Moriarty had to have a way to get him out, otherwise what was the point? Unless Moriarty simply wanted to hurt John. Which he might – no. No, he wanted Sherlock. John was in prison, Sherlock couldn’t talk to him about this. He couldn’t get him out. I can’t get out, said the starling.

Sherlock put his head in his hands, not caring what Mycroft’s driver thought. He couldn’t _think_ , memories were leaking out of their separate compartments. John was in prison, Sherlock had touched his face, and it hadn’t felt like John, he needed to touch John all over, to check that he was unharmed. He needed to see John smile at him the way he had two – three nights ago, naked above Sherlock, straddling his thighs and holding his wrists down on the bed, a reckless, carefree smile that said that he knew he only had the upper hand because Sherlock was letting him, but he was going to take full advantage of it. John’s mouth in the prison was drawn, set. Moriarty had done that.

He needed to stop thinking about John and think about Moriarty, work out what he wanted. He closed his eyes. He had thought about Moriarty in the last months, of course. Yet it was undeniable that he had also been engaged with other things. Including John. It was clear, with the benefit of hindsight, that he had behaved unforgivably. He had recklessly led John into danger, again. He had no excuse for not knowing that any involvement with John created a potential risk. Mycroft had said so, damn him, and he had been absolutely right. Now all that Sherlock could hope to do was repair as much as possible of the damage he had caused. Probably that would involve doing a number of things that John would consider unforgivable, even if Sherlock were alive to be forgiven.

The car drew to a smooth halt. Sherlock looked up. They were already outside 221. The driver was looking back at him with some anxiety, doubtless poised to pass on to Mycroft that his brother was already cracking under the strain of his friend – his lover – being falsely accused and imprisoned. Sherlock schooled his face into impassivity, nodded to him, and slid out. He had a moment where he had no idea where his house key was, but as he slid a hand into his coat pocket to check, the door opened. Mycroft, of course.

“Sherlock,” he said. His eyes scanned around and behind him. He held the door open, and Sherlock, unable to think of another option, went in. He followed Mycroft up the stairs in silence, and into their – the- sitting room, automatically hanging up his coat as he entered.

“Tea, please,” said Mycroft in the general direction of the kitchen. Before Sherlock could work out whether he was being addressed, one of Mycroft’s  assistants came out from the kitchen with a tray, neatly arranged. Sherlock thought about several remarks about Mycroft making himself at home, but they all took too much energy. Mycroft sat down at the table – in John’s seat – and poured two cups. Then he looked pointedly at Sherlock until Sherlock sighed and sat down opposite him.

“How did you find Dr Watson?” said Mycroft.

“Fine,” said Sherlock, deliberately. He kept his hands in his pockets. The tea steamed in front of him.

Mycroft exhaled, and set down his cup.

“We both know that Moriarty is – interested in you, Sherlock. Assuming that the situation of John and Mrs Hudson is no coincidence, which I think at this point is safe, he evidently intends to use them as leverage. I have upgraded your surveillance level, and I intend to leave two of my personnel at Baker St at all times. We are not averse to knowing what Moriarty wants and where he is. I have a wire, a tracker – “

“No,” said Sherlock. “He’ll know. I don’t want you and your entire staff listening in. What use have you been so far? John’s innocent, you know he is, and yet he’s still in prison, exactly where Moriarty wants him to be. I work _alone_.”

“Not any more,” said Mycroft. “Not for – what has it been, nearly a year?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “You need me on this, Sherlock. Moriarty cannot be trusted. His grasp on sanity is questionable at best, in our opinion. What good will it do John if he kills you?”

“You don’t kill your audience,” said Sherlock, with more confidence than he felt. “I know how his mind works.”

Mycroft gave him a look that Sherlock particularly loathed, composed of equal parts of pity and condescension.

“I’m not asking, I’m telling,” he said. “I can’t force you to wear a wire, but my people stay. They can remain in the hallway, if their presence bothers you so much. Get some sleep. We can have a full briefing in the morning.” He stood up, and his assistant appeared as if by magic at his elbow with his overcoat and umbrella.

“Have you found the connection between Moriarty and Moran?” said Sherlock.

Mycroft’s back stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

“You haven’t, have you? Do HM’s Secret Service even know you’re here? Or are they too busy doing damage control?”

“There are enough of us to recognize Moriarty’s hand in this,” said Mycroft, evenly, turning back around. Sherlock saw Anthea or whoever’s eyes flicker to Mycroft and away.

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Not everyone believes you, do they? What do they think, that you’re defending your little brother’s – Do they think John did it? “

Mycroft leant on his umbrella. He looked at Sherlock, but with a different kind of pity.

“Sherlock, you saw the press. You read Moran’s statement. He handed himself in of his own accord, as far as anyone is aware, and there's no indication we can find that he isn't telling the truth. He passed two lie detector tests with flying colours, as the _Sun_ will have told you. Did John give you any information that directly contradicted him? You needn’t answer, I know he didn’t. Everyone thinks John “did it”. Innocence is a hard thing to prove, as you know. If your assumptions about my colleagues were correct, and I’m not saying they are, you might reflect that I am as always _on your side_.”

“Get out,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft shrugged slightly. “Briefing at 8:30 sharp, then,” he said.

“I’m not one of your fucking employees,” said Sherlock, in a voice meant to carry, but Mycroft had disregarded him and was already at the top of the stairs. Anthea gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile, and he considered throwing the teacup in her face.

After the door closed behind Mycroft and his minion, he did drink the tea, though, which had exactly the right amount of milk in it, as usual. He checked his phone and laptop: nothing new. His eyes slid shut involuntarily. Loath as he was to admit that he needed to sleep, it was clear that he would be more use to John if he were less jetlagged. And with Mycroft’s men guarding the door, he himself was probably not in enough personal danger to require vigilance. He walked to his room, shedding clothes, too tired even too think about the last time he’d been there, waking up in the early morning beside John’s warmth. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments! I had a lot of fun writing Moriarty here, for almost the first time. Hope you all enjoy.

Sherlock woke seamlessly from a deep sleep at 5am, all senses alert. His mind was blessedly clear. Moriarty was going to contact him today, or had already done so: Sherlock had absolutely no doubt about that. And he needed a means Mycroft couldn’t monitor, which ruled out all the electronic devices Sherlock already owned, plus the internet and postal service. Sherlock lay in bed and thought about what he would have done. John had been arrested on Saturday afternoon, and the police had searched the flat the same day. Sherlock’s flight had landed late morning on Sunday, and he’d gone directly to see John. No-one had been in Baker St on Saturday night, then, since Mycroft would undoubtedly have been fully occupied with emergency meetings about John’s arrest.

Sherlock slid out of bed, pulling on his dressing-gown. He paused in the doorway, looking over his room, dim in the light from the half-drawn curtains. John had been in here after Sherlock left for Las Vegas, of course, and John always pulled the curtains open in the morning, always. And Sherlock hadn’t touched them last night. What would entertain Moriarty? Sherlock felt the tingle of success, connections clicking into place. He took two steps across the room and bent to open the drawer in his bedside table, in which John helpfully kept a continually replenished box of condoms and some lube. He picked up the condom box carefully, and sure enough, it was heavy in the hand. When Sherlock tipped it up, a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile slid out. He looked at it with satisfaction. Moriarty liked teasing, and he was focused on Sherlock’s relationship – sexual relationship – with John, that was potentially usable. Then the satisfaction faded. It had taken him under two minutes to find Moriarty’s hiding place, and not through brilliant deduction. It was because he understood how Moriarty’s mind worked, up to the point where its workings chimed with his own. All beyond that was not exactly blank, more like a foggy landscape he had never wished to see clearly, for fear it would also be familiar.

He sat down on the bed and switched the phone on. It chimed with a message almost instantly.

“Starbucks nearest Highbury & Islington. 8am. Don’t tell big brother!! J xx”

Sherlock’s hand clenched on the phone. He wanted to grind it under his heel. He took a deep breath, instead, and texted, with a steady hand:

“See you there – SH”

***

Sherlock opened the door to the flat at 6:45am. Mycroft’s security guard raised a hand to his earpiece.

“Jetlag,” said Sherlock, as lightly as he could. “I’m starving, no food in the house. I’m going out for a walk and to get some groceries. If that’s permitted, of course.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll come with you.”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock walked down past Mrs Hudson’s dark doorway and then set off, once outside, at a purposeful clip. He didn’t look behind him to see the goon trailing him. Moriarty’s phone burnt a hole in his pocket. He walked briskly to the largish Sainsbury’s in the City. Hardly the closest place to buy food, but near enough to be unsuspicious. At this hour, before 7:30, it was quiet, though the first early-morning businessmen and bankers were wandering the aisles. Sherlock took a basket and selected a few things at random, trying to project an air of being dazed and confused. He slowed down and studied a shelf of cereal. Mycroft’s security man was carefully trained to hover unobtrusively within easy reach. His background was Welsh working-class, he was an ex-soldier, and he enjoyed country and western music. He was uneasy at being responsible for Sherlock, which was throwing him off slightly.

Sherlock selected a particularly lurid-coloured box and then walked as if idly towards the small freezer section near the back. It was deserted, unsurprisingly. Not much call for frozen vegetables in the offices of central London. He let himself glance upwards at the store’s security cameras, which were still trained as they always had been in this aisle. He bent over one of the meat cabinets and opened it, noting from the shadows in the glass that his guard was less than a foot away on his right. He counted to three, and then came up swinging – frozen leg of lamb, handy weapon – aiming with some brutality to catch the guard in his groin. He made a pained grunt, not loud enough to be audible over the musak in the background, and doubled over: Sherlock hit him hard over his ear before he could recover, and he slumped to the ground. Sherlock straightened his jacket, and tossed the leg of lamb back into the freezer. He bent to check the man’s pulse, which was strong. He didn’t want him seriously injured. He looked up again. Most of this aisle was a carefully selected blind spot, but if Mycroft’s minions were watching, it wouldn’t take long for them to register that he hadn’t re-emerged from it. The employee’s entrance that he wanted was at the end of the row of cabinets, locked, of course, but he’d checked that the combination remained the same less than two weeks ago. He clicked on the numbers and the door opened smoothly. He hadn’t actually had to use this particular escape route, but it was one of his favourites: he’d looked at nearly fifty central London supermarkets as possibilities before finding this one.

The door led to a dim storage area and then the back alleyway where the lorries unloaded. He waited a moment on the other side, in case any employees were around, and then moved quickly to the last row of shelves against the left hand wall, half-way down, in the foot of space under the bottom shelf. His hand felt cloth and then metal. He pulled out the bundle of clothes and changed rapidly, taking off his coat and pulling on a lurid neon yellow visibility jacket, tucking his hair under the brightly coloured cycle helmet. He transferred Moriarty’s phone and his wallet from coat to anorak, and then bundled up his coat and stuffed it into the dark space under the shelves, with some regret. Then he pulled out the folding bike. He listened. They should have found the unconscious man in the frozen goods aisle by now, surely, but everything was still quiet, bar the increasing noise of morning traffic outside. His watch said 7:30. He went to the entrance and pressed the button to raise the door, stopping it as soon as there was a foot of space, enough to slide through. The door couldn’t be closed from the outside, but that couldn’t be helped. It would in any case be obvious that he’d exited this way.

Sherlock straightened up in the cobbled alleyway, fortunately deserted, took some cycle clips from the pocket of his anorak and attached them to his trousers, with distaste. There: now he looked precisely like all the other fools who thought it was sensible to risk life and limb dodging the London traffic on their way to work. He started unfolding the bike, rapidly and precisely.

The thought of what John would have said about his outfit came unbidden into his mind. When he’d first met John, it had been a novelty to have someone to recount his cases to – it had been months before he’d stopped keeping things back, being careful what to report – but now, now everything he did, he could see John’s reaction. John laughing at the leg of lamb, and impressed with his disguise; John’s eyes widening as he picked the lock on the door. Last summer, they’d been running from a couple of thugs, had been running for nearly half an hour, when Sherlock had turned them down a side street, stopped a few metres down, pulled open the metal hatch set in the pavement, and pulled John after him, inside. John trying to catch his breath, gasping.

“Where’s this? How did you know about it?”

“One of my hideouts.” Sherlock had said it casually, but he’d aimed to impress.

“Hideouts? You knew this was here?”

“Of course I knew. I have places all over London, for a quick escape. This one – “ he’d gestured towards the back wall of barrels. “Pub cellar, faulty catch on the trapdoor so it opens from the street. Check in the cases of pear cider – that vile stuff never shifts – I left a medical case, some food and water and a disguise there eight weeks ago.” 

John had raised his eyebrows and gone to check, rummaging around. He’d come back with the black bag Sherlock had stashed there, grinning and shaking his head.

“Amazing,” he’d said. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that. Of course you’d have a whole set of elaborate getaway plans. That was why you made us run through half of bloody London to get here, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I could hardly take them home for tea,” Sherlock had said, his lips curving.

“Mad bastard.” John had sounded fond. He’d looked in the bag.

“And a packet of biscuits too. All mod cons. How long are we going to be stuck here, incidentally?”

Sherlock had frowned. “Two hours or so? We should leave before daylight, but we need to give them enough time to stop searching and give up.”

“Two hours, hmm.” John had looked at him, alight with mischief, cocked his head to one side. “I can think of something better to do than eat biscuits, in that case.”

Sherlock bent his head forward into the cold metal of the bike under his hands, gripping it. His own surprise; John’s hands on his chest, pushing him back, up against a stack of cold metal barrels, suddenly _desperate_ for it, John kissing him, sliding his hand under the edge of Sherlock’s trousers as he tried not to groan out loud….

Sherlock shook his head and straightened with a wrench. Not here, not now. He couldn’t let Moriarty see this. He had to strengthen his defences, to leave those memories locked away until it was safe to let them out. Of course, he thought, even if he’d wanted to tell John, in prison, about this daring escape from Mycroft, he couldn’t. Because he was in the process of doing precisely the opposite of what both John and Mycroft wanted, though doubtless they would expect no less. He swung a leg over the bike and set off.

*******

Sherlock looked through the window of the Starbucks, but couldn’t see Moriarty. He left the bike casually against some railings, assuming it would be gone by the time he came out, stripped off the cycle clothing and draped it over the bike, and then went into the café. He was exactly on time. It was a narrow space, coffee bar on the left, a row of tables and a long window seat on the right. Sherlock walked to the end, where there was a small seating area up some steps. He almost didn’t recognize Moriarty. He was at the furthest table, back to the wall, of course, wearing a baseball cap and a thin white T-shirt, jeans and trainers, legs sprawled out, thumbing his phone. Another version of Jim from IT, though a more assured one.

Sherlock walked up to the table and stood over him. Moriarty looked up, eyes widening in affected surprise, and took out his headphones

“Sherlock!” he said. “8:01 precisely, you’re keen.” He stretched in his chair, catlike. “Get me a latte, will you, I’m done with my first.” He tapped at his phone.

Sherlock’s hands twitched with the effort of remaining still, of not fastening themselves around Jim Moriarty’s throat. He pulled out the chair opposite him deliberately, and sat down, smoothing his jacket.

“No,” he said.

Moriarty looked up sharply, and then grinned, slowly. He sat back in his chair, dark greedy eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“58,” he said. “60, 61, 69, 70. Let’s see – give me a moment - Morris, Akhmad, Barnes, Saber, Nkombe.” He studied Sherlock’s face. “Better show me your paces, genius.”

Sherlock held his gaze, maintaining his breathing. He tried to look bored.

“Cell numbers,” he said. “John’s in room 59. Both sides of the corridor, I assume?”

“Correct!” said Moriarty, gleeful. “Just a few of my friends on the inside. I was just –“ he tapped his phone, “having a word with one of my wardens. John went down for his breakfast five minutes ago. He’s about to get some coffee himself. So if you don’t want it spilled in a very sensitive place…..” He leant towards Sherlock, eyes glittering. “You’d better do what I want, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. He found that he was standing up even while his mind was still calculating the benefits of obeying rather than resisting, of the likelihood that Moriarty was bluffing. Moriarty looked up at him.

“Good boy,” he said, softly.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, but he went to order. He’d shown his hand. Though at this point, it was moot; no point bluffing when Moriarty held all the cards. A trite metaphor. Sherlock stared fixedly at the coffee menu, conscious of Moriarty’s eyes assessing him, and wondered if he were still jetlagged; he felt the edges of his usual self-possession crumbling dangerously. The coffee took an endless time to arrive, and he couldn’t even use the time to think of a productive plan, his mind constantly stalling on the idea of John in the hands of people Moriarty owned. He walked back to the table, setting down Moriarty’s coffee and sitting down with his own.

“I assume you have a proposition for me,” he said. He took a mouthful of coffee without tasting it. “Tell me your terms for John’s release and exoneration.”

“Just John?” said Moriarty. “You’re more attached to your little pet than I realised. Tut, tut, Sherlock, leaving your other friends to rot like that; who’d have thought it?”

“Other friends. Mrs Hudson?”

Moriarty inclined his head slightly: keep going.

Sherlock frowned. “I…Lestrade?”

Moriarty shaped his mouth into a mockery of concern. “Haven’t even seen the papers this morning, have you?” He reached over to the table next to them and snagged a discarded Metro, sports pages uppermost. He flipped it over.

Sherlock scanned the headline, “WATSON’S COP FRIEND IN DRUGS BUST”. It would be a mistake to let Moriarty see him reading the article. He pushed it away, and shrugged.

“So?” he said. “You’ve made your point. Name your terms. Or I’ll leave this to my brother.”

Moriarty snorted. “Oh, I don’t think so, do you?” He blew on his latte, lifting it to his mouth and smiling at Sherlock over it. “Haven’t you worked it out? What I want?”

Sherlock looked him in the eye. “You want me to work for you.”

“Not just a pretty face,” said Moriarty. “Go on, lay it out for me.”

“You don’t want me dead, or you’d have killed me by now. You don’t want John dead, or Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. You want them alive, as leverage. You think that I’ll do whatever you ask in order to keep them safe. But what would you want to ask for? There’s nothing I have access to that you couldn’t get as easily for yourself, and it’s not information you’re interested in, anyway. You’re interested in me. And this isn’t – this isn’t short-term. You don’t need leverage immediately, you need it for the foreseeable future.”

Moriarty’s eyes glittered. “Well done,” he said. “You see, we’re just alike, you and I. Except that you’re boring. You’re on the side of the angels. But if you weren’t – we could be so good together, Sherlock. So very, very good. The world – “ he gestured, “we could hold it in our hands. We could let it carry on, or we could _end it_ – boom, just like that. Your little obsession with your soldier friend, it’s very sweet, but it’s not worthy of you, it’s pained me to watch you, really, demeaning yourself to their level, all that sweat and flesh and emotion. Wasting yourself. Think of my offer as an intervention. I can save you from yourself.”

“I’m not interested in saving myself. I’m interested in saving John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Again: _name your terms_.”

“Feisty,” said Moriarty, approving. “You’re going to be so much fun.” He raised an eyebrow. “No, not what you’re thinking, darling. I want you for your brain, not for – “ he gestured, “for all that. Now, where were we? Terms, hmmm?” He pushed himself off the table with his hands, rocking his chair.

 “Seven years, I thought. Has a nice Biblical ring to it, doesn’t it? Seven years, for your soldier. The others I’ll throw in for free, straight away. I’ve got all the evidence you need, for them. But _John_ – I’m keeping him. There’ll be the fuss over his deportation, that’ll take a good long while, then they’ll send him to Afghanistan, then the justice system there will begin its extremely slow work – easily a year or two before we see a trial, let’s call it your period of probation, shall we? – and then he’ll be locked up nice and snug in a jail run by a number of my soon-to-be close friends.”

“You seem very confident of John’s conviction,” Sherlock observed.

Moriarty smiled at him, raising an eyebrow. “I have Moran, of course,” he said, waving a hand to indicate boredom. “And a variety of picturesque villagers prepared to identify John Watson as the man who killed their loved ones in cold blood. Even if you eliminated Moran, which frankly, my dear, I very much doubt you can achieve while he’s under my protection, you wouldn’t have won.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened slightly. “Can you have him cleared of the charges?” he said.

“Cleared? Oh, eventually. I have a few other things squirreled away. But contingent on your good behaviour.”

“I could get John out. You know I could.”

“True. You could sacrifice two pawns, save your queen. But it would only delay my endgame. So romantic, you and little John on the run, fugitives from justice. And from me. How long do you think that would last?”

“If I accept your proposition,” said Sherlock, turning his cup in his hands, “why would you trust me? And how do you propose to keep my brother out of it?”

“I like that we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty already, “ said Moriarty, approving. “Let me see. One” – he held up a finger for emphasis – “big brother isn’t going to be terribly invested in hunting down and killing his rogue sibling. Nor will his chums in government. They don’t want you on the front pages holding my hand, do they? Embarrassing for the family firm, and all that.” He took a sip of coffee.

“Two: my star employees don’t need to run. I can buy any police force in the world. Most of them I already have. I think you’ll appreciate my – shall we say network? Three: trusted employees are so, so dull. Frankly, I’d be horribly disappointed if I _could_ trust you. And running with my secrets to big brother wouldn’t do you any good anyway, though I could make sure you had a _really_ fun time when he locks you in jail. Four, let’s not forget that you want John Watson back in one piece. Terrible things can happen to a man in an Afghan jail. Rape, torture – I won’t spoil the taste of our coffees, but you get the picture.”

He rocked back again, studying Sherlock’s face. “And five – this is the key one – you’re going to like working for me, Sherlock. You’re going to _love_ it. All the fun, and none of the petty inconveniences, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about crossing the tracks. You’re curious, admit it. You want to know what it feels like to be on the other side. You want to know how my world works. And I can show you, Sherlock, I can give you everything you’ve always wanted, and you can tell yourself it’s for a good cause. At the end of your contract, you’ll be free to go, but I like to think you’ll beg me to stay.”

Sherlock wanted to sneer at him, but instead he looked away, out of the window, for respite from Moriarty’s knowing gaze.

“What are you going to do here, otherwise?” said Moriarty softly. “You’ll never work with the police again, after this. You won’t get clients. Everything you do, everything you have done, will be tainted. They’re very shallow, the British public. No loyalty, no admiration for true genius. And all the while, John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will be suffering, at my whim. He suffers so beautifully, your little John. It might take years to break him, but I’ve got years. I’ve got _decades_.”

Sherlock forced himself to lift his drink to his mouth and take another sip, face schooled. His hand was tight on the paper cup, he tried to relax it.

“I won’t make you do anything you’d be _unhappy_ with, of course,” said Moriarty. “Strictly investigative work, just the sort you enjoy. People come to me with all sorts of problems, you know, all over the world. We both appreciate that the law can’t help everyone. I simply provide an alternative.”

“Why should I believe any of your promises?” said Sherlock.

Moriarty shrugged. “Why not?” He spread his hands. “I don’t see you getting any better offers. And I keep my word. I’m known for it.” He grinned again and leant forward, conspiratorial.

“Didn’t I say I’d burn the heart out of you? Oh, Sherlock.” He sat back, shaking his head. “Of course, I’d hope that after seven years you might have got over this little – obsession. But if you still want him then, you can have him. And enough money and clean documents to start a new life, wherever you choose. The landlady, your pet policeman - they can be dealt with within a week, once you’ve signed your contract with me and are on your way. Caracas first, I thought. Buenos Aires, Sao Paulo, Rio…..”

Sherlock looked out of the window again. His mind was attempting to calculate, parsing the variables, but it kept grinding to a halt at dead ends. He could kill Moriarty now, with the folding knife in his pocket, he thought he would have time to do it before anyone intervened. But that wouldn’t get John out. Nor would telling Mycroft about this conversation. He’d known that when he’d gone to such lengths to hide it.

As though from a long distance away, Sherlock admired Moriarty’s cleverness, the simplicity and audacity of his planning.

“I need time to consider,” he said.

“Bor-ing,” Moriarty sing-songed. He sighed, long-suffering. “Twenty-four hours,” I need your answer by text by 9am tomorrow, and then you’ll have three hours to meet me, sort out a few legalities about your new identities, and after that you’ll be flying out.”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. “I have to stay in contact with John,” he said.  “Non-negotiable. And I’m not leaving this country until Mrs Hudson is back in it. Free.”

Moriarty narrowed his eyes, playing with his coffee cup. “The first, easy. But no meetings in person after today. Maybe in a year or two if you’ve been very, very good. The second – “ he tutted. “Not a problem establishing innocence, but her testimony….“ He shrugged. “For you... Let’s call it a deal. I’ll speak to my people tomorrow. No London for you though, too risky. We’ll take you by car somewhere in the morning.”

“Assuming I say yes.”

“Don’t _tease_ ,” said Moriarty. “The suspense is killing me already.” He stood up and stretched, arms over his head, T-shirt riding up. He picked up his phone and studied it, typing for a moment. “Well. I think this has been productive, don’t you? I’ll be off now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Till then,” said Sherlock. Moriarty put his headphones on, smiled at Sherlock like a shark, and eased past him towards the door. Sherlock didn’t turn round to watch him go. He stared at the wall in front of him, and thought about the things he could live without, and the things he couldn’t, and where to draw the line.


	5. Chapter 5

John had been expecting it, but he was still caught off-guard. He was in the bathroom after lunch, washing his hands, when the four of them came in and stood round them. There was one other prisoner in the room, who took one look and then eeled between the men and out. Too much to hope that he’d gone to fetch some authorities, probably. John put up a good effort, but four against one was long odds, and in a few minutes the largest man – Mack, he thought – had John’s arms pinned behind his back with one hand, his other arm across John’s throat. Two of the others were in front of him, one holding a nasty-looking knife. The third was still on the floor, clutching his groin and swearing.

“Fucking cocksucker,” said the one with the knife, who seemed to be the ringleader, a skinny man with black hair in a ponytail, breathing hard. “We’re here to give you something to show your posh boyfriend later, on orders. Otherwise we’d just fucking knife you now and get it over with.” He drew his fist back and punched John, hard, on his eye. John’s head snapped back, eyes closed. His left eye wouldn’t open when he tried, but the right saw the knife approaching. There was a slice of pain across his cheek, heightening, and the trickle of warm blood.

He braced himself for more, but the men moved away, dropping his hands and slamming out of the bathroom before he could process their departure.  He watched the door for a moment, and then moved swiftly to get a pad of toilet roll and press it to his cheek, and another to be a makeshift compress. He ran cold water over it and pressed it to his eye for a few moments, already swollen shut, trying not to catch sight of his full face in the mirror. There was no way he’d be able to hide this from Sherlock, or anyone. He reached for his professionalism. He’d need stitches, he had to go to the infirmary. He threw the toilet roll in the bin, steeled himself and walked out. None of his attackers were visible, and in the long walk to the infirmary, shoulders back, praying that his cheek wasn’t still bleeding, he passed two prison staff who also ignored him. Good to know, he supposed. At least the nurse in the infirmary reacted, with some horror. But even here, she didn’t ask. And she wouldn’t let John do it himself; he had to sit through her nervous stitching, ending up with a botched job and his face half-numb from anaesthetic. There was nothing much she could do for the spectacular black eye he was developing. John thanked her anyway, politely, because at least she was doing her job.

Back in his cell, he sat down on his bed abruptly. Besides his face, his ribs were bruised and his arms hurt from being wrenched behind him. It could have been a lot worse, of course. It probably _would_ be a lot worse, his mind supplied, so long as Moriarty needed to prove something to Sherlock. Beyond that, he couldn’t think. He’d been trying to operate in hour-long segments, get through one, then the next, take each minute as it came. Try not to think about how long it would be until Sherlock came again. He’d refused a solicitor, he needed to ask Sherlock about that. His fists clenched. All he could do was sit here, useless and now injured, and wait. The waiting had always been the hardest part of being in the army, but he had never been so alone in doing it. And he couldn’t think what he was waiting for. He hoped that Sherlock had tracked down Moran. He hoped that he was taking care, futile though this was. Those men had used John to send a message: but why was the message necessary? What was it that it would push Sherlock to do, or not to do? There was no answer that wasn’t terrifying.

***

John spent the next hours lying on his bed, stiffly, his thoughts running in circles. His injuries were painful, though he'd had much worse. He was more disturbed by the implication that Moriarty's men were everywhere. He didn't go down for lunch, he wasn't hungry. He’d stopped to watch the news for a few minutes in the morning on the way back to his cell, conscious of other inmates eyeing him sideways. Seeing Greg on the screen had been a shock, though after a moment, not a surprise. The three people Sherlock knew best, all in serious trouble, this was a significant addition to Moriarty’s arsenal. He wondered what the law could do to Lestrade. Then he thought about Molly: Moriarty already knew about her, and he probably knew how much time Sherlock spent at Barts, but he would have had little indication that Sherlock saw Molly as a friend. If he did, of course. If Molly hadn’t been OK, would it have made the news?

John had just closed his eyes, exhausted by worry, when the door swung open without warning and Mycroft stepped in, shutting it behind him. He swung himself up to sitting, wincing as the movement jarred his cheek. His right eye was still not opening properly. Mycroft studied him without apparent surprise.

“Are you injured in any other way?” he said.

“No,” John said. “No, just a few bruises. They said this was for Sherlock’s benefit. Mycroft, Moriarty has the prison officers too.”

“I imagined so,” said Mycroft, utterly neutral. John clenched a fist in the sheet.

“Can you hack into the CCTV network here, then?” he said. He wanted to stand up, to be on Mycroft’s level, but the room was so small that this would have brought them face to face.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, in what could have been a nod. “No-one is listening in here, though,” he added. “Or watching. We can speak freely, though it will of course be known that we have spoken.”

“Right,” said John. Against his better judgement, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Sherlock. Is he OK? Is he…coming back here?”

Mycroft fiddled with his immaculate cuffs for a moment, looking down. Then he sighed and crossed to the small table, turning its plastic chair round to face John and sitting on it, crossing his legs.

“Sherlock saw Moriarty this morning,” he said. “I had security in place, of course, but he took measures to evade it. Successfully, unfortunately. We didn’t catch up with Sherlock until he tried to break in to the station where Mr Moran is currently detained for questioning, a few hours ago. He refuses to tell me anything about his actions this morning, despite all the persuasion I can bring to bear, from which I can only draw one conclusion.”

John rubbed at his mouth, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches. Mycroft was looking at him meaningfully, but he didn’t know what conclusion he was meant to draw, only that Sherlock having any kind of conversation with Moriarty was a very bad idea.

“So what’s your conclusion?” he said, dreading the answer.

“That Moriarty has used you, Mrs Hudson, and Inspector Lestrade – Sherlock’s friends – to blackmail him into agreeing to something extremely stupid. Think about it, John. What does Moriarty most want?”

“He wants Sherlock,” said John. “But if Sherlock went to meet him, I don’t understand how he walked away. Moriarty could have – he could have taken him then. Damn it, where the hell were you? You know exactly what he’s like, you should have been fucking watching him twenty-four hours a day.” He stopped short.

“Your anger is not undeserved,” said Mycroft. “The employee responsible for losing Sherlock has been severely disciplined. But the damage is done. Ask yourself this, John, if James Moriarty “wants” Sherlock, for what purpose is this?”

“I don’t know,” said John, anger fading back into fear. “To impress him, to prove how much cleverer he is. He likes playing games, he wants Sherlock paying attention to him. He let us go, last time, but he was planning to get us later… I don’t fucking _know_.”

“I believe that he wants Sherlock to join his organization, and that Sherlock has agreed.”

John stared at him a moment. “Sherlock wouldn’t – “ he said, automatically. Then the realisation hit him, like a punch in the gut; Sherlock might.

“You don’t know for sure,” he said. “And even if that’s true, Sherlock would string him along, he wouldn’t really do it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. “You know him better than anyone. Are you sure?”

John bent his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair, seeing Sherlock’s face in their last meeting, hearing his apology. Sherlock had probably known exactly what Moriarty was planning to ask. Would he really work for – or with -  Moriarty? He thought with a sick feeling about Sherlock a year ago, giddy with delight at solving Moriarty’s puzzles, intrigued, excited by a challenge that John could never offer. 

He looked up, reluctantly. “He might,” he said.

Mycroft nodded, crisply. “My brother has always been drawn to danger, and to intellectual challenges. If Moriarty gives him these, and the bait is your safety, then he would find the offer hard to resist. He might tell himself that he was accepting to save you, to save all of you. He might be intending to double-cross Moriarty, later along the line, or to kill him whenever he thought it was safe.” He paused, lips compressed. “But we have to assume the worst. Sherlock and Moriarty working as a team…. This is not a risk that we can afford to take.”

“Just lock him up,” said John, hearing the note of desperation in his voice. “Keep him somewhere where Moriarty can’t get to him.”

“And when Moriarty took that out on you, and Sherlock found out? Even with Sherlock’s consent, I can’t hide him indefinitely.”

“Then get me out. Pull strings, break the law, I don’t care, just get me out and then he won’t have a reason. Or get Moriarty – pull him in, question him, fucking shoot him in the head, don’t tell me you can’t do it - ”

“I can’t,” said Mycroft. “Believe me, I have explored every possible option. Despite what you appear to think, I – and my organization – have to operate within certain constraints. Your case is public knowledge now. I cannot make that disappear. I cannot make Mr Moran and his testimony vanish, and at present I – we- have no viable means to discredit him. I might be able to block extradition, or to expedite it, and I can assist with your legal requirements, with visitation rights, and so forth, but there are limits to my powers. And even if we could find Moriarty, we have very little credible evidence against him, and a great deal of worrying hearsay about what his organization is authorized to do should he ever be arrested.”

He pulled his shirt cuffs up, precisely, studying them. “That includes a note I received yesterday, sent to my private address, detailing what would happen to you if Moriarty ended up in our custody, with or without Sherlock’s help.” He looked up. “I have kept this private, naturally.”

“Then what are you going to do? You can’t just let Sherlock hand himself over!” John forced himself to lower his voice. His black eye throbbed painfully.

“No,” said Mycroft. “You may not fully appreciate the extent to which Sherlock operating on Moriarty’s behalf would be … untenable. He would be hunted by every agency in the world. If they caught him, it would be a disaster, from various perspectives, but if they didn’t, it would in many ways be worse. Sherlock is not capable of working half-heartedly. I cannot let this happen, John. Even if it were entirely up to me, which I’m afraid it is not. The – authorities are extremely concerned. Extremely. I am afraid that I can only see one way out that does not end in Sherlock being arrested, by parties outside my control, within the next twenty-four hours. At very best. There are a number of highly-placed people who would prefer it if my brother were to – disappear. Or be disappeared, to be accurate. They view him as a security risk, and as you are well aware, they are unfortunately correct.” He still sounded impassive, but there were depths beneath his tone.

“Disappeared.” John swallowed. “You mean you – they –  No. You said there’s a way – you want me to talk him out of it? I don’t know if I can.”

Mycroft was watching him, with what looked like pity. John tried to think. If this were true, Sherlock was going to give himself to Moriarty to save John, so if John could get out – maybe escape, maybe Mycroft would help him – but then he’d still be on the run, and Mycroft had said he couldn’t get him out. If John wasn’t there –

He drew in a sharp breath, one pang, one moment in which everything he might regret washed through him, and then he accepted it. He sat up straighter, hands on his knees, meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

“If _I_ were dead, Sherlock would have no incentive,” he said. “Moriarty would lose his bargaining power. Sherlock would be focused on bringing him down. Working with you, not against you. And he could get Mrs Hudson and Lestrade off easily enough, or you could. I’m right, aren’t I?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I have tried to think of another solution,” said Mycroft.

“No,” said John. “It’s OK. I – I’d rather be dead, anyway, than spend the rest of my life in prison.” He lifted his chin. “I’m not going to fucking sit around while other people suffer for me.”

“I suspected you would feel that way,” said Mycroft. “You are a brave man, John Watson. And you are an asset, to my brother and, potentially, more broadly – one I am reluctant to lose. For you to _appear_ to die is at least necessary, but it may be possible, ah, for this _appearance_ to be created. Our time is limited: there would be considerable risk, of course. And if you agreed, you would have to leave the country immediately, with no guarantee of return. I could give you a new identity and a peaceful place to live – or if you preferred, you could work as one of my agents, in Europe or elsewhere. You have abilities that we could use.”

“You – you really think that it could be faked? You think Moriarty would fall for that?” said John. He was reluctant to start hoping.

“I think that if Sherlock is convinced, then Moriarty will be,” said Mycroft. “Convincing Sherlock will be difficult, but not perhaps impossible. You must be the judge of that. You understand, John, Sherlock must not know of the deception. It would be of the utmost importance that those watching him believed him to be truly - truly grieving.”

“You mean, not tell him?” John blinked. He had somehow assumed that Sherlock would be part of the plan, whatever it might be. “Lie to him? Sherlock’s a brilliant actor when he needs to be. You know that. He wouldn’t give anything away.”

“You are my brother’s greatest weakness. Can you guarantee that he would make no effort to contact you, perhaps for years? That he would be content not to know where you were, what you were doing? Can you really tell me, John, that Sherlock would not drop everything to find you? Remember, I cannot clear you of these charges at present. You would be a hunted criminal, if anyone suspected your identity. One man, alone, is easy to disguise. Especially if no-one is looking for him. Two men, both of them well-known to the media, both usually photographed together…”

John swallowed, and looked away from Mycroft’s searching gaze. Of course the first thing that he’d thought of, when Mycroft had said it might be possible to fake his death, was that he’d be doing so with Sherlock, just as the first thing he’d thought of in the instant when he’d been ready to commit suicide was that Sherlock would be hurt but would still be alive, free and not working for Moriarty. He hadn’t envisaged no contact. Though Mycroft had said “considerable risk”. If John didn’t make it through, and Sherlock knew of the plan and expected him to, that would be worse, surely? His mind seemed sluggish, but Mycroft must have thought through the options - 

“This is not an ideal situation, John,” said Mycroft. “There are no good choices. I cannot guarantee your safety or Sherlock’s. This is my only offer, and I need your answer in a few hours time, if I am to set things in motion. I believe that Moriarty has given Sherlock a deadline, probably not more than twenty-four hours from their meeting this morning. Sherlock has arranged to visit you in” – he checked his watch – “an hour from now.”  John looked at him. Mycroft leant forward a little, urgent.

“If you decide to – proceed, there is a camera in the top left-hand corner above the television in the recreation room. Look _directly_ at it and nod, and you’ll hear again from me shortly afterwards. No signal by 5pm, and I will assume you have decided against. Is that clear, John?”

John nodded. “Yes. 5pm, camera in the rec room. I need to speak to Sherlock, first.”

“I appreciate that,” said Mycroft. “And John – the instructions you will receive may be. Well. Bear in mind that it will need to be _utterly_ convincing, that you will in effect have to – to die, by your own hand.” His mouth twisted. He stood up, smoothing down his jacket.

John looked up at him. “Just promise me that you’ll do everything you can to keep Sherlock safe, whatever happens.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “I promise,” he said, and then held out his hand, surprisingly. John shook it, feeling the weight of conspiracy settling onto his shoulders. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched, as though attempting a smile and thinking better of it, and then he let go, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

***

John spent his twenty minutes pacing. Five steps one way, five the other. His eye throbbed in time to his steps.  Mycroft might be wrong, he might be lying, for his own ends – John believed him capable of it. He had to gauge for himself whether Sherlock’s plans were as Mycroft had represented. But if they were…in that case, he didn’t need to think about whether to accept Mycroft’s offer. There was no other alternative. Sherlock – he was in love with Sherlock, there was no point denying it to himself any more, not in this extremity, and if the choice was between his death or Sherlock’s, there was no question which he would choose. And Mycroft was certainly right that if Sherlock thought John might be alive, he would track him down.

So John had to identify Sherlock’s plans correctly in the course of one brief conversation, and then convince one of the most intelligent men in the world, and the person who knew him best, that he had good cause for suicide, and also that if John did end up dead, or as good as, he shouldn’t feel guilty about it.

“Visitor for you, Watson,” said one of the guards, opening the door. John cursed. He’d been trying to plan out what to say, and instead he’d spent at least five minutes of his tiny amount of time wondering if Sherlock loved him back, mooning like a teenage girl. He looked the guard in the face and saw him flinch slightly at John’s injuries, but he didn’t mention them. He just stood back, to let John walk before him through the prison.

When John walked into the visitor’s room, Sherlock was sitting at the same table they’d used before, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked up and John saw his eyes widen, barely a second before he pushed himself up in one smooth movement, striding towards him. The guard stepped forward.

“Step back, sir,” he said, one hand on Sherlock’s chest.

“Who did this?” said Sherlock, voice shaking with anger. He was about a foot away, poised to brush off the guard.

“I’m OK,” he said, stretching out his own hand, placating. If Sherlock were thrown out – “Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes were searching his face, resting on his cheek, his bruises. “It was just a scuffle, I’m fine, you need to sit down. Please.”

Something crossed Sherlock’s face, a flash of emotion, and then it shut down, blank. John bit his lip. Sherlock knew John was lying, of course. This was not going to be easy. No surprise there. Sherlock nodded and walked back to the table, back stiff. John looked at the guard for permission, and then sat down.

“When?” said Sherlock.

“Earlier today.”

“No, I mean _exactly_ when.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, bitten-off. “Yes, it matters, John. Have you lost track of time already?”

John folded his arms. “Around 9, 9:30,” he said. “Are you going to tell me _why_ it matters? And you know you’re reacting exactly the way he wants, don’t you?”

Sherlock swallowed. His eyes were blazing, but the rest of his face was impassive.

“So do you know what he wants?” said John, keeping his tone light.

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, but John had the impression he was thinking fiercely. He held John’s gaze.

“No,” he said.

John looked down. His chest hurt. He knew Sherlock was lying, and he was willing to bet that Sherlock knew he knew.

“John?” said Sherlock. John looked back up.

“We only have a short time,” said Sherlock. “I wanted to say….I need you to be patient. I might not – I might not be able to visit for a while. But no matter what, I’ll be in touch with you whenever I can. No matter what, John. I will get you out. I’m, I’m working on it.”

John’s throat closed up, and for a dreadful moment he thought he might weep. Sherlock might as well have confessed his plans directly.

“I know,” he said. “Sherlock – I saw Mycroft. He told me you met Moriarty this morning. There’s no point pretending. I know you’re lying to me. No, don’t say anything, just – Just let me say this.” He took a deep breath. Sherlock had gone tense, across from him. John looked into his eyes and tried to call up all the sincerity he had.

“Stop trying to save me. That’s playing into his hands. You think I’m worth rescuing, but you, you’re the hero here. You’re the one who can do good in the world. If you think that you’re going to swap that for my life, then you’re wrong. Because I won’t live with that, Sherlock. Do you hear me? I would rather die.”

Sherlock’s hands clenched on the edge of the table. He was silent for a moment. John watched him, trying to commit his face to memory.

“It’s not your choice to make,” Sherlock said finally, defiant. “I said, whatever it took. Neither you nor my brother can stop me.”

John nodded. He wasn’t surprised. ”Do you remember the night we got together?”

Sherlock frowned, thrown.

“It was one of the best nights of my life,” said John. “Remember? We saved that little girl, got her home safe to her parents, and then you put your hand on my knee in the cab on the way home and I couldn’t breathe. You jumped me on the doorstep, before we even got into the house, and then we ended up on that horrible chair Mrs H keeps in the hall, I was sure she was going to catch us, any minute, and the bloody front door swung open because we hadn’t even shut it properly behind us, and you had your hand half-way into my pants –“ He wet his lips. “I couldn’t believe how much I wanted you. Everything we’ve done together, it’s been amazing. You need to know that.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, into something that looked like fear.

“What are you doing?” he said. “What did Mycroft say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said John. He took a deep breath, wishing he had had more chance to practice this. “I need to tell you something. I haven’t been honest with you, about Afghanistan. I – I was with Moran, that night. Target practice. We were very drunk, and Moran said he’d seen a guy with an assault rifle standing in one of the houses in the village, and we went down to check it out. And things got out of control. I didn’t do much of the shooting, but I’m not using that as a defence; I didn’t stop him either.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m guilty, and I’ve fooled you into thinking that I’m a good person, but I was _there_ , Sherlock, and it’s been – it’s been hanging over me for years, I’ve tried to make up for it, but I can’t.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “No. I know you, John. You’re not capable of this.”

“You didn’t know me then. I cared about the men I fought with, but I didn’t care about civilians; they were pretty much all the Taliban as far as I was concerned. You’ve seen me trying to be a better person, you didn’t know me like I was in the war. Sherlock, the day we first met I killed someone without thinking twice. You analysed everything about me, but you’ve never thought that was a bit odd? That I had an illegal gun? What kind of ordinary doctor – or soldier – _does_ that stuff? I was a fucking mess when we met, I woke up every night remembering that village, and all the stuff that happened after – I was going to shoot myself, you know. And when we met it seemed a bit like a second chance, that I could make up for it by helping you to help people. But it’s never going to go away, I know that now.”

“ _No_. This is ridiculous. Stop lying to me, John.”

“I have been lying to you, I’ve been lying to everyone, all along. But I’m not now. I need to tell you all this because I know you’re trying to get me out, but I don’t want you to. I’m going to do the right thing, Sherlock. You can tell everyone I’m guilty – Mrs Hudson, Greg, everyone we know, I don’t care any more. We might not see each other, for a while, like you said, so I want you to promise – I need you to promise me, Sherlock, that whatever happens you’re going to keep doing your work, you’re not going to, to give up. Please. It’s really important.”

“I don’t believe you. I’ll never believe you.”

“Just promise.” The clock on the wall said 4:52. “Our time’s nearly up. Please, Sherlock, just do this for me, OK?”

“Fine, I promise,” said Sherlock. “But whatever you hope to achieve by this, it won’t work. My priority is to keep you safe. That will not change, no matter what you say.”

“Ditto,” said John. He smiled, letting himself drink in the sight of Sherlock defiant, determined. He didn’t need to tell Sherlock what he felt, or to ask him in return: this was enough.

“I have to go,” he said. “If anything happens…remember that you promised. And remember that I’m saying sorry, now. None of this is your fault, Sherlock, remember that.” He stood up. Less than five minutes. He turned to the guard, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and held him in place. He looked scared, nakedly scared.

“John, what are you – don’t go yet, I – ”

John, on impulse, bent down and kissed him, quickly, just a brush across his lips, and then pulled himself free and walked away. Two steps, the guard had opened the door for him, but Sherlock’s chair had clattered to the ground behind him and his hand was on John’s shoulder.

“Step away  _now_ ,” said the guard. He pressed a button on his radio and stood forward, pushing Sherlock back. The opposite door opened and two more guards came in.

“John,” said Sherlock, sounding desperate, but John didn’t look at him; he struggled out from Sherlock’s grip and took the two steps out of the door and into the prison, leaving Sherlock calling his name as the door swung shut between them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short update so there may be another at mid-week, sorry for not posting last night! Thank you for the lovely comments. Warnings for everything surrounding suicide are I hope redundant for this fic given the premise, but consider yourselves warned.

John went straight to the TV room, not looking back, stared directly into the camera, and nodded. A couple of other inmates were glancing at him curiously, attention distracted from the figures on screen. He held himself straight, breathing hard. He had only just made it in time. And what happened now? It seemed anticlimactic to go back to his cell, but he couldn’t bear to wait in public, so he went. He was half-expecting that Mycroft would already be there. No time had been specified for his – for their – plan, but John assumed it would have to be soon, before Sherlock was out of reach. Panic threatened to claw at him – he’d left Sherlock, he’d let him go - and he shoved it down.

Mycroft wasn’t in the cell. John went and sat down on the bed, staring blankly at the window. What had he just agreed to, what was he doing – what was _Sherlock_ doing, out there, in a state of desperation to match John’s own? He looked sideways at the alarm clock: it was only ten past five, far too early for Mycroft to have set anything in motion, surely, no matter what his resources.

Then he looked again. There hadn’t been an alarm clock in the cell before he left, he was pretty sure of it. He did own one a little like this, but not exactly the same, and he certainly hadn’t brought it with him. It looked absolutely ordinary: a standard black plastic digital alarm clock, lightweight and cheap, nothing remotely remarkable about it. John picked it up gingerly, feeling foolish at expecting it to detonate in his hands. He prised at the back and the covering  for the batteries came undone. A splash of colour: his heart-rate picked up. There was a small yellow post-it on the inside of the cover, stuck on and folded over. He unfolded it carefully, hands steady. There was no writing on it, simply a series of lines or dashes drawn in black biro, seven in a row near the bottom of the page and slightly to the left:

_  _  _  _  _  _  _

John stared at it. He wasn’t bloody Sherlock, he couldn’t figure out elaborate Holmesian puzzles, if this even _was_ Mycroft and not Moriarty fucking with him. He didn’t have _time_ for codes and games, how was he supposed to fucking know what –

Except that those lines, a neat series of dashes waiting to be filled in, looked familiar. A game. A word-game he had taught to Sherlock, on a bored evening in front of the living-room fire, astonished that this was one more childhood pastime Sherlock seemed to have missed out on entirely. Not so in Mycroft’s case apparently, unless he’d learned it from watching them. All Sherlock’s words had been elaborate scientific terms; John had retaliated with as many names of obscure diseases and body parts as he could come up with, and Sherlock had guessed nine out of ten without a wrong letter. John had been hung in effigy over and over again. He could see Sherlock, brushing his hair out of the way, adding a stick limb with relish. On the one letter Sherlock missed in their rounds, John had given the circle head he drew on the gallows tree a deerstalker and Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him and trounced him completely, transparently enjoying himself. It had been a good evening, an ordinary evening, one of the best. John hoped Mycroft had enjoyed watching it. He really fucking hoped so. This was a sick joke, black humour, the twist of a knife. Very Holmes.

But John knew what the note was telling him. He didn’t need the usual drawing to get the hint, he didn’t need to write in the letters. Hanging. At least it was the traditional way to go, in a prison cell.

He folded the note into a tiny square in his hand, and slotted the battery cover back in place. Mycroft had told him he would have to do it himself, and he supposed – that is, he could certainly do it. When, that was the question. He’d been given a clock. He pressed the button that showed what time the alarm was set for: 7pm. That was – that was very soon. Made sense, middle of the dinner hour, everyone would be preoccupied.

The switch at the side said that the alarm was off. He frowned at it for a moment, and then left it that way. Right, then. He was going to kill himself, he was going to hang himself, to Mycroft’s order. He needed to get rid of the note – it was very doubtful anyone else would get it, but not a risk to take. He ripped it into tiny pieces, opened the window the few centimetres it would move and let the air take them. It was a Victorian prison, and the iron bars in front of the small windows were intact. John considered them. He’d thought a lot about suicide, in his first weeks back in London. He’d bought the gun, an easy way out, but he’d still researched alternatives, checking out the options with a morbid fascination. And he’d told Ella this, defiant, which meant that Mycroft knew it too. He must be counting on John’s medical knowledge and his memory. And on a very substantial dose of luck and accurate timing.

That is, supposing Mycroft genuinely wanted him to survive. What would he have done if John hadn’t agreed to his plan? With Mycroft’s resources, easy enough to kill someone and make it _look_ like suicide, presumably. And the plan he’d suggested - it would be a good way to get John out of the picture, make him more likely to follow through, by promising him a miracle would magically save him. John hadn’t got as far as wondering how exactly they would fake John’s death, but this seemed...problematic, to say the least. If he went through with it, if he hung herself, did it properly, he would be dead instantly. If he did it – like someone who didn’t know what he was doing, it would be – it wouldn’t be good. But he would still be dead. Unless he botched it up entirely, and ended up a vegetable.

John took a deep breath, and then another. He had promised. He had meant it: he still meant it. He wasn’t going to back out. But he had no idea how he would get through the next two hours. He thought of writing notes – to Sherlock, maybe even to Harry – but notes seemed too final, too much a statement that he definitely wasn’t going to make it to morning alive. He didn’t want to leave the cell and parade himself further with his battered face. Possibly – possibly to probably – his last hours on earth, and he couldn’t spend them with the only person he would have liked to speak to. He wasn’t the praying type, except in extremity. And what was this, if not extremity? If there was any power that would let Sherlock at least get out of the next twenty-four hours alive and unscathed, John would happily spend his remaining time begging for that favour.

***

Sherlock stood on the street outside the prison, trying to calm himself down. He missed his coat, its weight on its shoulders, the deep pockets to hide his clenched hands. His throat was raw from shouting, from trying to make those fools see, to understand. Everyone could see his agitation, there were cameras all around, and he was doing a terrible job at concealing it. He had been expecting Mycroft to pick him up, to argue and threaten again, or at the very least a couple of minions set to follow him around, but there was no-one there. He fingered his phone in his trouser project. The officers and prison official hadn’t listened to him, they’d humoured him and thrown him out, but they needed to listen, they needed to watch John, to surround him, to make sure he didn’t – to make sure.

They’d listen to Mycroft. Sherlock took out his phone, hesitated, and then called Mycroft’s private line. The phone rang and rang: no answer. He hung up and tried again, twice. Then he tried the usual number, which went to a bland voice telling him to leave a message. Mycroft had fleets of assistants, but Sherlock didn’t have a way of contacting them directly. The private line was for emergencies only. He had always refused to use it before, but he knew Mycroft. It was inconceivable that he wasn’t aware Sherlock was trying to reach him. Which meant…Sherlock didn’t know, but nothing good.

He looked at the CCTV cameras, and they looked back, impersonal. Very well. John had to be watched. He had to be _safe_. If Mycroft didn’t care for his safety, Sherlock would ask the person who had the greatest vested interest in keeping John Watson breathing. He consulted his mental map of London. Taxis were too traceable, East Acton for the Central line, then. No surveillance visible on the ground now didn’t mean it wasn’t there, so he needed to take every precaution to lose it before reaching the hideout where he’d left Moriarty’s phone this morning. And then. He exhaled steadily, wishing for a cigarette, and set off at a fast pace towards the station, unobtrusively dropping his phone into the first bin that he passed.

When he raised the sash of the back bathroom window of an empty flat in Notting Hill, on the market for two years and counting, he was certain he hadn’t been followed there. The flat was alarmed, naturally, but not in the bathroom, and the money the foreign owners had spent on it hadn’t included fixing the dodgy Victorian windows. He’d left the phone and a few other essentials in the bathroom bin in a plastic bag. He took them out. Water, lockpicks, two knives, a thin piece of rope and some masking tape. Moriarty would search him, but he took the knives anyway, the small folding knife in his trouser pocket and the flat against his ankle, invisible under sock and trouser cuff. He put the lockpicks in his pocket too. Then he let himself out of the window again and down the drainpipe one floor to the overgrown garden; over the garden wall, and onto the deserted mews that ran along the back of the terrace. A London fox watched his descent, poised to flee. They looked at one another for a second, and then the fox trotted off, purposefully, unintimidated. Sherlock leant back against the wall.

Last chance. The urgency and terror he had felt when John left without looking back, without reassurance, had not faded but intensified. Time was vital. The circuitous route he had taken to get here had been necessary, but almost an hour and a half had passed since John’s last words to him. Too long. He had a sense of being dangerously adrift, on currents he could not trace or evade – but none of this mattered, for now at least, if only he achieved his primary goal. He licked his lips, and dialled the only number the phone held.

***

The bell sounded for dinner, and there was a flurry of noise in the corridor, intensifying, cheerful and angry voices, doors banging. John had finished deliberating over his options some time ago.  A guard had knocked, opened the door and given him a quick once-over a couple of minutes ago, whether on Mycroft or Moriarty’s orders or by chance John didn’t know or care. By this stage he was assuming that the pair of them had the staff and inmates pretty much evenly divided. In any case, it meant that it was unlikely he’d be disturbed again any time soon. The sheet under his hands was thin material, already fraying at the ends. Really, they weren’t even trying to make this hard. He looked at the alarm clock, and set to work.

***

Moriarty sent a black cab for Sherlock. He must have several on call, it arrived barely two minutes after Sherlock hung up. A nice touch, Sherlock thought, climbing in, given how he’d first heard Moriarty’s name. He sat back, legs crossed, letting his face smooth into indifference, noting the route carefully. Moriarty had made a phone call while Sherlock was on the line, waited, and then reported that John was in his cell, sitting on his bed. Moriarty’s man had allegedly asked John if he was doing all right, and John had said “Fine.” That was what John would have said, Sherlock thought. He had felt a burst of relief at the news, even though he told himself it wasn’t trustworthy. He would ask Moriarty to let him hear John’s voice, that could surely be arranged.

John had been upset earlier, he had been injured. He would be thinking about Sherlock’s words, now, and realising that Sherlock was going to keep him as safe as he could be. Sherlock’s fists clenched again, uselessly. It did not matter what John thought of his actions. It only mattered that he was _safe_ , that they were all safe. Regret was for the weak. Mycroft had not answered his phone. He had no choice, but he was not helpless: he would be able to improvise, to turn the smallest of opportunities into an advantage.

The taxi drove with agonizing slowness through central London, Marble Arch, Victoria and over Vauxhall Bridge, right and then right again to stop at the portico entrance of one of the shining mountains of overpriced and underoccupied flats that towered above the river. Sherlock raised one eyebrow. Immediately across from the MI5 building, a nice if childish touch. His phone chimed.

“Glad you could make it. Flat 12C – M x”

Sherlock opened the door – he assumed paying the cabbie would be redundant – and made his way, keeping his stride relaxed, through the doors and into the lift. The lifts were almost certainly wired for cameras and sound. He maintained his pose, tapping his fingers idly against one thigh. He thought about the building; layout, number of flats on each floor, price, professions of the occupants. Location of the nearest exits. The corridors were bland and wealthy, thickly carpeted. No cameras visible, though that meant little. He knocked on the door.

Moriarty opened it himself, which was a surprise, with a flourish.

“Sherlock!” he said, grinning. He was back in a sharp suit, immaculate. “What an expected pleasure. Come in, come in.”

Sherlock stepped past him, round a corner and into a spacious living-room, sleek chrome and leather, plate-glass windows showcasing the MI5 building and the Thames, London spread out below.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Moriarty was standing too close beside him. Sherlock didn’t answer. He surveyed the room briefly.

“Sebastian!” called Moriarty. “Our guest is here.” His grin hadn’t faded. “I bought it for him,” he confided. “A little reward for his efforts. Sebastian does like the high life.”

Another man came into the room. Ex-soldier, early forties, cropped hair and a wiry body, nose broken at some point in the last year, had been in England less than a month. Moran. He looked sullen and nervous.

“Moran, I presume,” said Sherlock. He was distantly pleased that his voice came out firm and even. He turned to Moriarty, dismissively.

“You need to arrange for me to speak to John. And I assume that you have acted further on my information.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, the wellbeing of Dr Watson is _very_ close to my heart.”

Moran snorted, seating himself in one of the white leather armchairs and leafing through a magazine.

“We’ll be hearing from my contacts any moment now,” Moriarty added. There was a drinks tray on the cabinet to one side of the room. He crossed and started pouring drinks, back to Sherlock.

“Search him, will you, Seb?”

Moran sighed, heaved himself up and came over to Sherlock. Sherlock tensed: so close, so easy to disable him…but from the corner of his eye he could see Moriarty slide a gun from a drawer in the cabinet and place it casually beside the bottles, and it would do John little good at this point in any case. He held himself still as Moran approached.

“There’s a knife in my left trouser pocket and one strapped to my right ankle,” he said, drawling the words. “And a set of picks in my right suit pocket. Don’t mislay my folding knife, I’m rather attached to it.”

“I’ll look for myself,” said Moran. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Moran sounded London but that was put-on, there was solid privilege buried in his accent. Sandhurst undoubtedly, Home Counties. He patted Sherlock down casually but  professionally, taking the weapons and pocketing them. Then he went and slumped in his chair again, disinterested.

“Well, then,” said Moriarty brightly, turning round with two clinking glasses. “Let’s drink to our shining future, Sherlock, before we finalize our plans.”

He walked over and passed Sherlock a heavy crystal glass, with a very generous measure of what looked and smelt like expensive brandy. Sherlock disliked brandy at the best of times, and the scent curdled his stomach. Moriarty was a little too close again, his dark eyes drinking Sherlock in, and Sherlock wondered, with a coil of dread, how honest he had been about his lack of any sexual interest. He had made this choice – in as much as it had ever been a choice – on the assumption of a fair exchange, Sherlock’s talents for John’s safety and eventual freedom. This depended, however, on Moriarty being rational enough beneath his posturing to run a major criminal network with efficiency, and on his obsession with Sherlock as a meeting of true minds. Minds alone. Anything more would be unacceptable. But the worst outcome would be for Sherlock to commit himself to this and then be unable to follow through; that way he lost everything.

He met Moriarty’s eyes with conscious effort and forced a smile, raising his glass slightly and forcing himself to swallow a mouthful.

“To our professional association,” he said.

Moriarty opened his mouth to speak, his lips twisting, but just then his phone started ringing in his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said, mock-apologetic. “Duty calls.” He took the phone out of his pocket, answered it curtly, and wheeled away, setting down his drink on the cabinet as he listened. Sherlock, watching, saw the moment when his back tensed, his hand paused in the act of reaching for the ice-bucket.

“Say that again,” he said. Moran looked up at his tone, startled. Sherlock’s breath caught.

Moriarty straightened, slowly, still listening. The caller’s voice was inaudible but an agitated rise and fall of sounds was just discernible. Moriarty’s eyes flicked to Sherlock for a second, and then to Moran.

“You’re positive,” he said. “One hundred per cent. I see. I will have you and your family eviscerated.” His tone was conversational. “Slowly. I look forward to it.” He hung up and stared at the phone for a minute.

“What’s going on, boss?” said Moran, inanely. It could have been anybody, Sherlock told himself, it could have been… He gripped the glass and waited.

Moriarty set down the phone deliberately. Then he reached for the gun beside it, swung around, cocked it and shot Moran in the head, in one smooth movement. Sherlock staggered back a step, involuntarily. Moran – Moran’s body – fell slightly to one side, twitching, a look of shock frozen on his face. A very clean shot, Sherlock thought, irrationally; though there was blood on the beige carpets now, a bright spray. He looked to Moriarty just as Moriarty trained the gun on him.

“Well,” he said. “Unfortunately Mr Moran outlived his usefulness.”

 The only sign of any agitation was that Moriarty’s chest was rising and falling perhaps more rapidly than usual, Sherlock couldn’t tell from a few paces distance.

“They’ll never get the blood out of that carpet,” he said, a reflex, to buy time. He had to know, he did know, he couldn’t know.

 Moriarty blinked, thrown, then laughed, a sharp bark. He reached with his free hand for the phone and hit a key without taking his eyes from Sherlock.

“Send cleanup and transport,” he said, calmly, and then set it down again.

“The best-laid plans.” His gun was steady. “Not very good at training your pets, are you, Sherlock? You were right. Your little soldier was _so_ determined to thwart me. So…” he shrugged, “bye-bye John Watson. Hung himself in his cell a few minutes ago. He’s on a slab in the prison morgue right now.” His expression had changed into something that was almost gleeful, watching Sherlock for cracks.

Sherlock kept his face as impassive as he could. Adrenaline and nausea spiked through him, and his legs wanted to fold. He had to get out of this, before any backup arrived. He had to find Mycroft. He could not think - he could not let himself think, now -  beyond achieving this. He took a step forward, carefully. Moriarty frowned.

“Of course I was right,” said Sherlock. He swallowed. “I’m always right. Ask yourself why I came here voluntarily, over twelve hours before your deadline. Our bargain holds, _Jim_. What do you think is left here for me, now?”

Moriarty’s frown deepened. Sherlock took another step towards him, his stance open.

“There’s nothing to keep me from being like you, is there? Not any more. I might want to pretend to be unwilling, but we both know that isn’t really the case.” He let his voice lower, watching Moriarty’s eyes flicker, a slight waver of the gun.

One more step. Moriarty wasn’t going to shoot him. He raised the glass in his hand.

“To our future,” he said, smiling into Moriarty’s eyes and taking a large gulp, Dutch courage, and then he threw the contents into his face, ducked low and grabbed for his legs.

The gun went off, Moriarty fell half on top of Sherlock, and there was a frantic scramble of limbs. Sherlock had the advantage of height, weight and desperation, however, and after a moment of blind and ungraceful struggle he was able to shove himself up and pin Moriarty’s arm, trying to aim the gun, to the floor, wrenching it from his hand. Moriarty stilled under him.

“Should have brought your snipers,” said Sherlock. He aimed the gun at Moriarty’s head.

Moriarty laughed under him, his body shaking in what seemed to be genuine mirth.

“Go on then,” he said. “Do you think I care? Maybe I even planned it this way: staying alive has been _so_ boring recently. I’ve got what I wanted. The destruction of Sherlock Holmes. Good act, by the way, you almost had me fooled for a moment. But you’ve given the game away now, my love. Go ahead, shoot me. I’ve won. Your John made sure of that. You’ll remember what I did to him, to you, for the rest of your life, you’ll always wonder if I _really_ tried to stop him, if I could have had my people make just a bit more effort…”

Sherlock pulled the trigger. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter, and I'm sorry it's so short, but it's a case of posting it now or never. Consider it as brief, necessary exposition before we get to the next bit. If you're wondering about the plausibility of John's 'death', I did attempt to research it (here's hoping no-one in my family ever checks my internet history) and my answer is: as plausible as the solution to Sherlock's death in season 3 is likely to be. 
> 
> I am/will be posting updates about this fic on my tumblr. I'm happy to be prodded to get a move on with chapters, since, to be honest, my time is limited and I'm far more likely to get on with it if people poke me.

John came to fighting for breath, a sharp pain round his neck and his throat raw; he gasped, wheezing, and then had to roll to the side and retch, painfully. He struggled towards full consciousness, fogged, lights dancing in front of his eyes as he opened them a crack. There was a white-tiled floor sliding in and out of focus beneath him. Voices blurred and boomed in the distance “..awake…get  the…”. Something tugged at him, an arm under his head and then there was something at his lips – he opened his mouth without thinking; a straw, it was a straw – and sucked down liquid desperately, though it burnt as he swallowed. It wasn’t water, it was thicker, like some kind of cordial, oddly sweet; like Ribena or childhood medicine. A warning light flashed somewhere at that, but it was too late, John’s limbs felt heavy and he was sinking back, eyes closing, into syrupy darkness. 

***

When he woke up again, he was achingly thirsty and still in pain, and he was dimly aware that his surroundings had changed. He was lying on something blissfully soft, with a coverlet over him. He opened his eyes, carefully. He was in a large bed, in what seemed to be a luxurious bedroom. There was an elaborate chandelier hanging from the ceiling rose. He struggled up on his elbows. He was wearing only his boxer shorts, he realised.

Mycroft was silhouetted by the window, staring out at a grey sky.

“Water,” said John. He winced at the pain of speaking. His voice was hoarse.

Mycroft glanced at him, and then crossed to the door and left the room. John tried to swallow, put his hand to his throat and felt the abrasions, gingerly. His mind felt numb. He could not summon up any relief or pleasure in finding himself still alive.

Mycroft came back in, balancing a tray with a crystal decanter of water and a single glass. He set it down and poured, precisely, and passed John a glass. John gulped at it, aware that it was shaking in his hand, and then made an involuntary noise of pain. Mycroft sat down on the bed, abruptly, and John shook his head to clear it – his head was throbbing with pain too, he realised – and looked at him properly. He looked terrible. His suit was crumpled, his hair looked greasy and a lock had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were bruised with shadow. He looked exhausted and human, in a way that John had never imagining seeing before.

“What day is it?” he said. “When – ” he broke off and coughed, unable to prevent his hand from going to his throat.

“The day after,” said Mycroft. He looked at his watch. “5:15pm. You are in my private residence in Warwickshire.”

“It,” said John. “It worked?” He was aware as he said it that it was an idiotic question, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Like clockwork,” said Mycroft, almost absently. “You did an excellent job. With the timing. My agent found you precisely as planned.”

“I don’t remember – I don’t remember anything,” said John. He recalled, as though from the distant past, sitting on the bed in his cell, twisting the sheet in his hands, and after that a merciful blank.

“It may come back, as you know. But you wouldn’t remember the – umm, the aftermath. We had to take – measures – to keep you unconscious. You were certified dead by the prison governor and the doctor, and taken straight down to the morgue.”

That was why he felt as though his brain was wrapped in cotton wool, John assumed. Drugs of some sort. He didn’t really want to know how Mycroft and whoever was in his pay had seemingly passed him off as a corpse; it was enough that it had worked.

 “Your sister identified you at 8:45pm,” Mycroft added.

John jerked his head up a little, startled.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “She was far from sober. But then, I’d rather counted on that being the case.”

John grimaced. He didn’t blame Harry. It had been clear from their one brief meeting after John’s arrest that she was very uncertain about his innocence, and they hadn’t parted on good terms. She didn’t deserve this, though. 

He had been hoping Mycroft would tell him about Sherlock without asking, as though the act of asking would jinx any response. But he had to know, and Mycroft was silent.

“Sherlock?” he said.

Mycroft shaded his eyes with one hand, rubbing at the lines on his forehead. John heard him sigh and had a moment of free-falling terror: Sherlock was dead, he was with Moriarty, irretrievable -

“We – I – have him,” Mycroft said. He turned to look at John. “The plan worked, in essence. But fortunately or unfortunately, Sherlock had already gone to Moriarty. He, umm. He heard of your supposed demise from Moriarty, apparently.”

John made a movement to speak, but Mycroft gestured to stop him.

“Technically this is privileged information, and you should sign the official secrets act, but I see no valid reason to hide it from you.”

Because I’m dead, John thought, with a sharp pang of clarity.

“My people picked Sherlock up at 8pm last night in a disused phone booth near Vauxhall station. Barely conscious and covered in blood. When he started speaking with – with any coherence, he claimed that he’d been alone with Moran and Moriarty, and that on hearing of your suicide Moriarty had shot Moran. And that Sherlock had then shot him in the head at point-blank range.” 

“But that’s – that’s fantastic. If they’re both dead…” The expression on Mycroft’s face stopped him.

“Sherlock was very obviously not – himself. We are having his blood tested as I speak, but it was evident he had been administered, or had administered himself, some form of hallucinogen. Among the varied scenarios he told me personally was that a giant black crow had crashed into the window of Moriarty’s apartment and flown off with him across the Thames. We checked the apartment, John. There were traces of blood on the carpet – we’re processing the results – and we’ve sent Sherlock’s clothing to be tested as well. Of course, we have no records of Moriarty’s blood type or DNA, so all we can prove is whether someone was present other than Sherlock and Moran, if indeed Moran was even there. There were no bodies and no weapons. No signs of a struggle. We have no idea who might have left the room alive, other than Sherlock. And we don’t know how he managed it; he doesn’t seem to remember. We’re going through hours of footage, but it’s a large building with numerous possible exits, and a busy area. I have six people on this, and have had since 9pm last night, and so far they haven’t even been able to identify _Sherlock_ arriving and leaving.”

He bit his lip, and smoothed back his hair.

“I do regret this, John,” he said. “But until I have solid proof that Moriarty is dead – and even if I _did_ have proof, we don’t know what instructions he may or may not have left behind him. We need to bide our time, to learn who and what we are dealing with and what their stake is in Sherlock’s future. And we are aware that Moran was not the only possible witness lined up against you, though what the status is of the others, we cannot tell at this juncture. You are officially deceased. Our plan remains intact. And it involves you leaving the country with a new identity in three days time.”

“Do I –  ” said John. “Do I have any choice?”

Mycroft looked him in the eyes, and John’s gaze dropped first.

“You owe me your life,” said Mycroft. He straightened his spine, clasping his hands in his lap. “Your freedom. There are always choices, John. All I will say on the matter is that you would be extremely unwise to place yourself in opposition to me, and to the – resources – that I represent. If you ever want the chance to regain any semblance of your previous existence, that is.”

“I see,” said John. He did see. He had a cold sense that he had failed to think things through properly, and that Mycroft had as usual been three steps ahead of him in planning. Ahead of them.

“Is Sherlock - is he OK?”

“He is sedated. The effects of whatever he was dosed with should have worn off by now. Physically, he is uninjured.” Mycroft hesitated. “I do not believe he has fully taken in the news of your – ” he waved a hand towards John. “We will see. I remember my promise, John. Be assured of that.”

“Can I…see him? I mean, if he’s asleep, or…”

Mycroft sighed. “That would be unwise.”

“Please.”

Mycroft stood up. “I will give it some thought. You must recuperate. I have to return to London, but I will ask my staff to send up some food and some information about your persona. I would advise studying it carefully. Tomorrow they will need to work on your appearance.” He nodded towards an immense wardrobe on one wall. “There are some clothes here, though they may not be a precise fit. ”

He paused by the door, one hand on the handle, as though he might have said something else, and then simply let himself out. John took another few sips of water, wincing, and then slid out of the bed. His legs worked, thankfully, though he felt shaky. His head throbbed, and his eye, the bruises of – could it have been yesterday? Christ, he was a mess.

He stood in the empty room and tried to ground himself. Priorities. For now, at least, he had to do what Mycroft wanted. Surely if Moriarty really were dead, it would be easy enough to find out. Sherlock – Sherlock would forgive him, he would understand that John had only wanted to save him, to protect him. He might have to go along with this pretence now, but it would only be a matter of weeks, maybe even days. If Moran were gone, if Moriarty wasn’t breathing down John’s neck, he would even accept being under arrest, fighting the case properly. After all, he was innocent. What evidence could they really have? 

And if Mycroft’s house was a trap, it was still better than that prison cell. He would wash – there was a door ajar off the room that looked to be an ensuite – find something decent to wear, and then at least he could explore, find out what he was dealing with. Maybe find a TV, watch the news. Not many people could say they’d seen their own obituaries, after all.

***

“What day is it?” said Sherlock. His eyes were closed, but he knew Mycroft was in the room. He also knew he was in a hospital, he could tell from the very familiar smell. Usually, John would be beside his bed, at this point in the proceedings.

“Wednesday,” said Mycroft. “Wednesday afternoon, to be precise.”

Wednesday. Then he had lost a day, nearly two days. It had been Monday, hadn’t it? If he couldn’t hold onto a simple fact like the days of the week….

He tried to order the sequence. He had been in Moriarty’s flat, Moriarty had received a phone call, blood had dripped onto the carpet; he’d pulled the trigger and seen Moriarty’s eyes blossom with shock, warm blood on Sherlock’s face; he’d staggered up and nearly fallen, dropped the gun – or had he kept it, he couldn’t remember – he’d known he had to leave, something about backup, and on the way out of the door he’d bumped into John’s body, hanging from the doorframe, twisting sickeningly, and when he’d turned back to the living-room Moriarty was rising from the carpet and all the glass had gone from the windows, London pouring in to the room –

No. That hadn’t happened. Sherlock swallowed. He opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his laptop open on his knee. He had the air of having been there for a long time.

“What happened to John?” Sherlock struggled to sit up. There was an IV line in his arm, he frowned at it. Mycroft looked like hell. He hadn’t answered his phone, Sherlock remembered, thought he remembered; it had mattered terribly at the time but he couldn’t catch hold of how or why. There had been a fox watching him. He looked at Mycroft and Mycroft looked for a moment like a predator, hungry and assessing.

“Sherlock…” said Mycroft. He always sounded most patronizing when he was trying to be kind, it had driven Sherlock mad as a child.

“Just _tell_ me,” he said. “I can’t re – ” He stopped. That was more than he had intended to admit.

“John hanged himself in his cell on Monday evening,” said Mycroft. “A couple of hours after you spoke to him. He didn’t leave a note. It was very – unfortunate timing. A few minutes either side...I had already requested that he be put on suicide watch: a couple of the things he said to me…well. I know you rang me, Sherlock, after you spoke to him yourself, I assume to say the same thing. I regret that I couldn’t take the calls – I was in fact in the prison, with the governor, at the time, trying to persuade him that John should be watched around the clock. I had surrendered my phone to show goodwill.” He sighed. “By the time the he had agreed, it was too little, too late.”

Sherlock watched his face. Mycroft was lying about something, presumably that he had been making every effort to ensure John’s safety. In all this last year, he had never said anything explicit about Sherlock and John’s – about them. Sherlock knew he disapproved, though, that he saw it as a weakness, a flaw. John’s death would make everything a great deal easier for Mycroft, on several grounds, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew he knew this.

“You need confirmation,” said Mycroft, without sounding hurt or perturbed. He opened the briefcase at his feet and took out a paper, _The Times_ , passing it over. The main headline was some drivel about government policy on immigration, but the front-page article below it was headed “Watson Suicide: Moran Missing.” Sherlock couldn’t read it. He let it fall onto the bed. He knew the date, it was today’s paper. Wednesday. John would never see another Wednesday. He hadn’t waited for Sherlock to rescue him, he had, with his usual pig-headedness, thrown himself misguidedly in front of a gun aimed at Sherlock.

“He was determined, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, with what he presumably intended for compassion. “It was his choice.” He sighed again, deliberately. “The funeral is tomorrow morning. Cremation. Should you wish to go.”

Sherlock was aware that his outward appearance was calm and controlled, but he was having some terrible internal reaction to these words, spinning into suffocating pain and panic and the thought of John; John’s body, his smile, his clever hands and the worn lines by his eyes, his warmth.

“I want to see him,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Mycroft. “I checked with Harriet Watson. She wanted to have everything – not to have to wait, to have a small, private funeral. The autopsy was brief and conclusive. We have camera footage that shows beyond a shadow of a doubt that John was alone in his cell at the time. The – the body is already in a sealed coffin. It’s not possible, Sherlock. And I would not have advised it, in any case. You have seen – ”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. There was a room in his mind palace devoted to hanging: history of, famous incidents, studies of hanged corpses, best methods of performing…

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, bringing him back to himself. “I’m afraid my staff will have to take you through Monday evening again; what happened at Moriarty’s flat.”

“I shot him at point-blank range. What more do you need?”

“Do you remember drinking anything, eating anything?”

“I told you this.” Sherlock had a moment of doubt: had he? He recalled talking, talking at length, but not exactly what he might have said. “Brandy. A few mouthfuls, no more.”

“He drugged you. Hallucinogen mixed with some kind of tranquillizer, we still haven’t identified the precise compound. On an empty stomach, even a small dose would have had a marked effect. Your evidence would not stand up in court, and we have no body. Security footage has yielded nothing. We assume it has been tampered with, expertly. But we don’t know what they were trying to cover up.”

“He was _dead_.”

“You’ve never actually killed anyone, have you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “I – ” he said.

“Kind of you to say it was his choice. Because I drove him to it.” Sherlock wanted to sound calm and controlled, but his voice was shaking. “If it wasn’t for me, John would be alive. Isn’t that the definition of killing someone?”

Mycroft was silent.

“Aren’t you going to point out that caring is never an advantage? That John cared and it killed him? Aren’t you going to tell me that all my actions have been compromised because I cared too much? That maybe if we had never – “

If he had never, if he had never kissed John, never fucked him, never let himself have this – it had been pure weakness, selfishness, and he had led John into danger, into despair, into a lonely death in a miserable place.

Sherlock curled himself forward, hiding his face. He felt Mycroft touch his shoulder, lightly, and flinched away from it, feeling rather than seeing him withdraw to his chair again.

“Go away,” he said, and after an indeterminate amount of time, Mycroft went.

***

The cemetery, or garden of remembrance, as the signs had it, was bland and uninspired, John thought: outskirts of London, traffic audible from the ring road, young trees planted in neat rows with sad plastic or withered flowers and stuffed toys by the identikit plaques at their base. It was not what he would have chosen. Their dad had been cremated here too, and he remembered thinking the same thing then; in fact he was sure he’d said it to Harry at the time. And she’d said that this had been the only London crematorium that could schedule a funeral within two weeks. Perhaps they made an exception for celebrity deaths. Or, more likely, Mycroft had a hand in the suspicious rush to get John Watson’s alleged body turned to ash.

John hadn’t attended the ceremony, of course, even if it had been possible, it would have been tasteless. Neither had Sherlock. The press had outnumbered the mourners by at least two to one. But Sherlock had come to the new plaque, down at the end of a long row, long after everyone else had left. John was watching him, thirty yards away from behind the thicker line of trees, with two of Mycroft’s minions poised to seize him if he took a step forwards. He had considered trying it anyway, especially in the moment when he first saw Sherlock walking haltingly, without his usual grace, to the right location; it had been almost impossible to stop himself from running to him, falling at his feet.

Mycroft was at Sherlock’s elbow, hovering. John tried to be grateful for that; Sherlock had family looking out for him, he would be OK. Mycroft was going to send him to some villa their grandmother had owned for a break, apparently. Get him out of the way while Mycroft’s agents worked on establishing Moriarty’s death. Sherlock had never mentioned owning a villa in Europe. Probably he’d deduced, rightly, that John would take the piss out of him for it. It was hard to imagine that Sherlock would be happy in the depths of the countryside, but John supposed that Mycroft must know best. Perhaps they had happy childhood memories there.

Sherlock bent down to the plaque with John’s name and dates on it, and touched it, hesitantly. It looked as though he was saying something. John craned to see, and one of the minions put a hand on his arm, a warning. But it was unnecessary: Sherlock had already risen and was walking away, more rapidly now, leaving Mycroft a pace behind. And then they were gone, and whatever opportunity John had had to make a break for it, to flout Mycroft’s rules, to beg Sherlock to face whatever was coming with him, was gone. He squared his shoulders. Sherlock had said goodbye to him, and John had to let him go, for now, for a little time. It was worth it, it was all worth it, to see Sherlock whole and safe. He would keep that with him, in the days to come. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this, guests staying last two weekends, work nightmares, etc... I really wanted to post this weekend, but this is even more unedited than my usual so please do point out continuity errors, typos etc and I'll go back and fix them as I work on the next part.

**Six weeks later**

Sherlock tossed Lucien’s phone up and caught it again, despite the tremors in his fingers. The small bedroom was stiflingly hot, and there was someone of indeterminate gender – Sherlock had met them several times, or so he assumed, but never bothered to learn their name - passed out under a sheet on the bed. They were unconscious but alive. The room smelled of sweat and cigarettes, and without the sweet haze of drugs its squalor was evident. Sherlock contemplated foraging for a smoke, but he’d put this off too long already, and he could feel the first edges of withdrawal setting in, itching at the edges of his consciousness. He glanced at his arm, at the veins pulsing beneath the surface. He had deliberately planned this space of lucidity in order to make the call, so that he would be able to sound reasonably normal and to recollect what was said. Much as he would prefer not to.

He tapped in the number, frowning. Perhaps it wouldn’t be picked up. But after only three rings, it was.

“Irene,” said Sherlock. There was a pause no longer than three heartbeats.

“Sherlock.” Irene sounded amused rather than surprised. “I heard you were off the radar. This _is_ interesting.”

“Not really.” Sherlock wet his lips. “I’m calling in a favour.”

“And here I thought you just fancied a chat,” said Irene, lightly. “What can I do for you, in that case?”

“I need to know…I need to know if – I need proof of Moriarty’s death.” He rubbed at the marks on one arm, unthinking. In his mind, without his willing it, Moriarty stood up from the carpet, shattered skull reforming.

Irene laughed, low and genuine. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “Are you telling me you don’t _know_?”

Sherlock gripped the phone tighter and wished very much that he was already high. “Do you know, or don’t you? You always give the _impression_ of someone well-informed, but I’ve never had cause to confirm it before.”

There were a few moments of silence. Sherlock listened to the static, thought about the echoes behind Irene’s voice and what that meant about the size of room she was in. Somewhere cavernous, an office, perhaps, though that seemed unlike her. He could hear the click of keys as she typed.

“Dead” said Irene, businesslike. “Shot in the head at point-blank range. Really, Sherlock, _you_ shouldn’t be so susceptible to narcotics.” She paused. “I had nothing to do with his little plot, in case you wondered. Moriarty’s obsession with you was his personal project. Those files are closed. Or so I hear.”

 Sherlock felt a wash of relief, and then immediate anger with himself for feeling it. He snorted, mirthlessly. “I’m not looking for you,” he said. “I couldn’t care less who you’re working for. Send Mycroft  some evidence that Moriarty is dead and we’re quits.”

“Hmm. Not that easy to obtain. I’m not saying I _can’t_ do it, but I’m thinking you’ll owe me back.”

 Sherlock laughed, almost genuine. “You know where I’m calling from by now.” It was easy to flirt with Irene, disturbingly familiar. “Unless you want to buy some mediocre heroin, I’ve nothing to offer.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Irene. “Marseille, mm? We keep each other’s secrets, Sherlock. You don’t shop me to your brother, and I won’t shop you. And you will owe me.”

“Fine. Done.”

“And I could set you up with something rather better than mediocre if you’d like.”

“Tempting, but no. I don’t want your help.”

Sherlock tried to keep his voice casual. This conversation was affecting him, fraying the edges of his careful camouflage. It had been a week, no, nearly two, since he’d spoken English, longer since he’d spoken to anyone who knew him from – the recent past. Lucien had been at school with him, until he’d been expelled for dealing; he knew the Sherlock of his teens and twenties, reckless and uncaring. Easy to lose the last ten years and return to that simpler time, when nothing had mattered. Easy to wear his battered espadrilles and worn jeans and a filthy T-shirt, to let his hair grow tangled, never to look in a mirror. But Irene had always had the power to reflect the parts of him he’d rather not see.

She made a tsking noise. “I always did like your brain,” she said. “Well, I suppose it’s yours to destroy. Good luck with getting lost, in that case. You have my number.”

Sherlock hung up, not bothering to reply, deleted Irene’s number from the call history, glanced at the figure in the bed, which hadn’t stirred, and turned the phone over in his hands. Moriarty was definitely dead, then, perhaps he wouldn’t have that particular waking nightmare any more. He looked up at the sound of Lucien emerging from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

“That’s my phone, you tosser.”

Sherlock switched back into French with relief.

“Conducting a bit of business,” he said. “Sorry’. He tossed the phone over, and then tipped his head back and looked up at Lucien. “I need a hit, now.”

“Sherlock, my friend” said Lucien, rolling his eyes and pocketing the phone. “You fucking owe me, remember? Where’s the fucking cash?”

“I’ll get it,” said Sherlock. He licked his dry lips. Now that he had successfully made the call, he was desperate not to be himself, to be free. “You know I can. This evening. Please, Lucien.”

Lucien sighed, looking him over. “What the fuck. I don’t know why I let you crash here. OK, but just till this evening, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, tension dissipating. A small part of him noted his abasement, the pleading in his tone, and took a kind of savage satisfaction in it.  

“Sherlock…” said Lucien. He scratched at his head. Sherlock scowled.

“Look, it’s none of my business what you’re doing here, but you were a fucking great chemist. Come in with me and we could do some serious damage. Whatever the fuck you’re doing out there for money, robbing, cocksucking – it’s a fool’s game. You’re going to get yourself killed before you OD, at this rate.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wanted to say something excoriating, but he needed Lucien on side.

“Maybe that’s the plan,” he said. From across the corridor, he thought he saw John, tight-lipped, eyes pained. He smiled at the ghost, mocking.

Lucien shrugged. “Your call. I’m taking a shower, gear’s in the kitchen. Help yourself. I’ll add it to your tab.”

Sherlock nodded, and started to push himself up, catching himself on the worn plaster as he stumbled down the hall.

***

John looked at the Departures board with assumed confidence. Fucking German. Frankfurt to – there it was, Würzberg. An attractive medieval university town, according to the brief notes in his file. Didn’t seem like the kind of place you’d expect to find one of Moriarty’s lieutenants, but he supposed it took all sorts. He looked for a ticket machine, hoping that he’d be able to negotiate it.

Six weeks, and this would be his third kill if he made it successfully. Mycroft’s team – John hadn’t spoken to Mycroft himself, and he rarely seemed to be communicating with the same person twice – it seemed sometimes that they’d simply been waiting for someone like John to come along. Someone they could point and shoot. They had names, addresses, employment records, marriage certificates, surveillance files that told John not only which bar his target liked to drink in but which fucking drink he usually ordered, for Christ’s sake. The files gave brief details of what the targets had done for Moriarty, the people they’d hurt; John suspected these were designed to assuage his conscience. He didn’t think he had much of one left, he should tell them not to bother.

Two weeks in, he had cracked and sent Sherlock a postcard, with a note on the back that only he would have understood. The postcard was of a painting in the Uffizi; he bought it in Croatia, and posted it in Belgium. In a sealed envelope, addressed to Mrs Hudson on the outside. He’d even faked a wrist injury to get a sympathetic woman in a café to write the address and message for him.

Four days later, the man on the other end of the phone; Simon, his alleged name was, had said, embarrassed, that Mr Holmes wanted him to know that Sherlock’s post was intercepted. Message received, loud and clear. John still spent his idle hours thinking up ever more elaborate scenarios for alerting Sherlock, but he was aware that they were drifting towards fantasy. The need to know how Sherlock was, the desperate urge he had to beg for any scrap of information, that hadn’t stopped, though he could more easily restrain it. In the first week, he hadn't tried: he'd asked, and asked again, he'd threatened, he'd cajoled. He'd got nowhere. What did he have to bargain with, after all? He googled Sherlock’s name in every internet café, but there was no news that he could find. Sherlock's blog had not updated, and John’s had been deleted by someone other than him. He didn’t know what he would have done if there _had_ been news, if Sherlock had posted something. In the nights, when he couldn’t sleep, when he sat up staring out of a cheap hotel window at towns or cities he would never know, he wondered what he wanted to hear: that Sherlock was suffering, that he missed John desperately; or that he was already moving on, consumed by new cases, supported by his old routines. He didn’t think he knew the answer.

And most days, the job, the work he was doing, was time-consuming and – some part of him had to admit – satisfying. One day he would go home to Sherlock, and he would be able to tell him: look, these are the people I took down, this is the work I did. And Sherlock would know what he’d done, and maybe he would even be pleased, pleased and surprised.

John found the ticket machine, hit buttons with assumed confidence, slid in his fake debit card, and two minutes later, was walking determinedly towards his train, towards his next kill.

***

**Eight weeks later**

Sherlock swam into consciousness with an awareness of danger, déjà vu, sickening familiarity; something had happened, he was back in, back… He opened his eyes a crack and saw white, a series of folds and planes that resolved into sheets. He was lying on his side, in a bed. Waking up in hospital: hardly unusual, but the last time he had done so… He couldn’t escape noticing that he was thirsty and beyond that, that he was wearing clothes, pyjama trousers and a T-shirt, that were familiar but shouldn’t be. His mind was working, but sluggishly. He didn’t remember getting here. He didn’t remember why he was here, but from the feel of the sheets and the expensive brand of air-freshener masking the standard hospital scent it was definitely not a state-funded institution. But what state was it in? Or what state was he in. There was a pun there, John would find it amusing.

John’s dead, his brain supplied. That’s why you’re here. Then he remembered, everything that had happened since he’d last woken up to Mycroft’s presence: warm night air, running on tarmac, Lucien’s stifling hot flat, that first rush of heroin, indescribable release, and such pure relief, like coming home at last. Cigarettes, Lucien’s scarred kitchen table with the one half-moon cut that looked like a white smile; streets and southern French accents and Sherlock in a back alley, someone shoving him against the wall; in the smarter avenues, brushing past rich tourists with a wallet in his hand; Irene telling him he had her number. Another flash of memory caught him: an airport loo, shiny white tiles, throwing up, pressing his head against cool porcelain and sliding into blackness to the sound of hammering on the door….that must have been the journey here, then. A great many more memories of the last few days, or maybe weeks, fought to emerge, and he shut the door on them firmly. Rehab, a term he hadn’t needed in a while, a song, he could hear the lyrics. No, concentrate. Rehab. Back in the UK, because if he looked beyond the pleasing symmetries of the sheet there was a sign beneath the window, sliding into focus, ‘Please Do Not Smoke in the Rooms’. Mycroft had found him and got him into a clinic, maybe even one he’d been in before. He wouldn’t know, as he’d deleted all those stays instantly on walking through the door.

There was a glass of water on the bedside table. Sherlock reached for it without conscious thought, sitting half-upright, and drank it down. _More_ , he thought. The door opened.

“You’re awake,” said Mycroft. His gaze swept over Sherlock without meeting his eyes, then he set his briefcase and overcoat down on a chair by the bed, took a jug of water from the table beneath the window, and refilled Sherlock’s glass. Sherlock drank it in gulps. He didn’t have the energy to refuse.

Mycroft sat on the chair, legs precisely crossed. “Do you know where you are?”

“Rehab, I assume.” Sherlock’s voice was croaky. He coughed.

“Hardly a major leap. Do you remember anything of the last four weeks?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, settling back against the pillows.

“Why not simply throw yourself from the nearest high building?” Mycroft inquired, in the same faintly disparaging tone as his other questions.

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head away slightly. He didn’t care if it was childish, he didn’t care if it was a repeat of his behaviour when – when – He squeezed his eyes shut and cut off that thought. He wanted Mycroft gone. He started running through the periodic table in his head, but it was no good, he could still hear.

“Because you promised John, didn’t you? You promised you wouldn’t. Did you think if you killed yourself more slowly with drugs and dehydration, it wouldn’t count?” Mycroft’s tone sharpened. “I made a promise too. And unlike you, I intend to keep it. I would have expected that with all your _sentiment_ , you might have wished to live up to John Watson’s trust in you. But then, he always did over-rate your ability to behave with decency.”

Sherlock recoiled a little from his words, and knew behind his eyelids that Mycroft had seen.

“Go away,” he said. There was a sea of grief there, apt cliché, that, a wave poised to crash over him, but not here, please, not with Mycroft watching.

“John is dead. But I had always believed, erroneously, it seems, that you were not immune to caring about your former landlady. I trust that it is very clear to you that if you had died last week on a filthy floor in a Marseille drug-dealer’s apartment, she would have spent the rest of her life in a Nevada jail. As she still may, of course.”

Sherlock’s breathing stuttered, and he lost his place in the table entirely. He’d barely thought of Mrs Hudson since John – since then. He hadn’t _deleted_ her, he just hadn’t – he hadn’t thought. And something else was coming to him from those unbearable days, from his first meeting with Moriarty. He opened his eyes, grudgingly, and met Mycroft’s.

“Lestrade?” he said.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “He is also awaiting trial. I understand he has been sacked, has lost all visitation rights to his children and is presently suicidal, so your _concern_ for his plight may not be necessary for much longer.”

“You didn’t – “

“I promised to protect you, not your entire acquaintance. I know you refuse to believe this, Sherlock, but there is considerably more at stake in my day-to-day work than the well-being of one or two individuals.”

Sherlock thought of John, tired and frightened and fierce, sending Sherlock away and then making Mycroft promise. He closed his eyes again and turned his head away.

Mycroft sighed. “John was an exception,” he said, a little more gently. “I did all I could.” When Sherlock didn’t respond, he sighed again, and Sherlock heard his chair scrape back as he stood up.

“I thought the gite would be a good place for you to… recuperate, and that you would be safe there, while we investigated Moriarty and Moran’s demise.”

There was an expectant pause. Sherlock remained silent. If Mycroft referred to it as fact, there was no need to ask as to how this had come about.

 “Well. I was evidently mistaken. I’m leaving this for you.” Sherlock felt a weight settle near his feet. “This is the latest news on Gregory Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and Moriarty’s network, and it represents all the information I can get, so don’t ask for more. You’re free to leave here whenever you want. Most of your clothes are still in – in Baker St, though I had them bring a selection here. Your other things are in the bedside cabinet. I shall be occupied for the next three or four days, but one of my assistants will be nearby for whatever you require.”

Sherlock waited until he heard the door close, and then gave it an extra five counted seconds, before he opened his eyes. Mycroft had left a laptop on the bed. He sat up and pulled it towards him, then changed his mind and pushed the covers off, leaning over to check the cabinet. His wallet was there, neatly stacked on top of his phone and his passport. It should have felt like a victory over Mycroft and his meddling ways, but it didn’t. He took out the phone and swiped his thumb across it, checking the date. So it was eight weeks, since. There were sixty-five new messages on his phone, and four hundred and five new emails. Almost certainly all press. He didn’t want to look at them now.

He opened the laptop and turned it on. There were two rows of files on the desktop, neatly numbered. Sherlock browsed them quickly: files on Mrs Hudson, on Lestrade, and sixteen separate files on Moriarty’s operations in different countries, what was known of them. He ran through those first. He noted that Irene wasn’t mentioned, though he wouldn’t have expected her to be. She preferred to be freelance. Even scanning the files rapidly he could see the gaps, the puzzles to unfold, the work still needed to complete what Mycroft’s team had started. They tugged at him.

He steepled his fingers and looked at the screen, unseeing. Mycroft had been clever. Eight, four, two weeks ago he hadn’t cared about Mrs Hudson, about Lestrade, about any revenge less immediate than seeing the life go out of James Moriarty’s eyes. Now he still craved oblivion, but he didn’t want to give these victories to the other side. John would have cared about taking down Moriarty’s minions, not just about Moriarty himself. John had given up everything, to save him, to stop Moriarty, and Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to finish what he’d started. He’d do this, and then…. Not even John could expect a promise to last a lifetime.

He took a deep breath and opened Lestrade’s file.

*******

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure that Mycroft’s minions would let him walk out of the door. He forced himself to eat some of the tray of food that had been left for him, though the sandwiches tasted like sawdust and the texture of the soup made him gag. He showered and shaved, trying not to look at anything other than isolated patches of skin in the mirror. He had to stop several times, when his hands were trembling too much to carry on. He didn’t want to meet his own eyes. Then he dressed with care in the suit and shirt that had been left for him, which whether by Mycroft’s dreadful kindness or chance were ones that he hadn’t worn in over a year, no memories attached. He packed up everything else in the room, including the laptop. His shoulders wanted the weight of his coat.

When he opened the room door, a man and a woman, both unfamiliar, were immediately outside, frowning, respectively, at a Macbook and a Blackberry. Sherlock let himself glance over them: both public-school educated and Cambridge, one of the modern colleges, worked for Mycroft less than two years, had obviously had sex together at least once, though the woman was engaged to someone else….nothing subtle, but it was reassuring that his abilities seemed to be unimpaired, since he hadn’t used them in so long.

They both looked up at him. Sherlock attempted to smile. From the looks on their faces, it was not a successful effort. The woman recovered first.

“Mr Holmes,” she said. “What can we do for you?”

“I’m leaving,” said Sherlock, with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“OK. Simon will take you to reception.” She glanced sharply at her partner, who stopped gaping at Sherlock, flushed, closed his laptop and stood up.

“While you alert my brother,” said Sherlock.

She gave him a professional smile.  “I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay.”

“Delightful,” said Sherlock. She looked like Mycroft’s type: immaculately dressed and made up, brown shiny hair, steely professionalism. He thought about asking her if she was sleeping with his brother, just to disconcert her, but it wasn’t worth it. He turned sharply to the man instead, who was still looking as though he expected Sherlock to produce a chainsaw and run amok.

“Umm, it’s this way. Sir. Mr Holmes,” he said, gesturing. They walked down the long institutional corridor and then through a set of doors and down a flight of stairs. The part of the building where Sherlock had been was modern, but the stairs must have been part of the original Victorian house, Sherlock noted. The view out of the windows was of extensive grounds, and rolling countryside beyond that. Not immediately identifiable as a part of England he knew, though there were a number of indications that he was within 100 miles of London. It would of course have been useful, with hindsight, if he had bothered to store information on all the rehab clinics and private hospitals Mycroft might use. Under no circumstances was he going to ask Simon to tell him where he was.

At the reception desk, in what had formerly been a grand entrance hall, wood-panelled and filled with stained glass, Simon murmured discreetly to the white-coated receptionist while Sherlock stared into space over his head. The receptionist was nodding, her eyes flicking to and from Sherlock. She clicked some keys on her computer and her printer hummed.

“Mr Holmes?” she said. Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift to her, and she visibly quailed. “We just need you to sign these forms, I’ve marked where.” She pushed some paper towards him and held out a pen.

Sherlock took it, and after noting the lack of header or address, scrawled his signature at her neat crosses without bothering to bring the rest of the words into focus. Mycroft had left £100 in crisp twenty-pound notes in his wallet, but would it be better to ask for a taxi to London, or to the nearest train station? What if he ended up waiting for hours at some hideous country halt with one train a day?

Simon was hovering annoyingly at his shoulder as he straightened.

“Er,” he said. “I wondered if you – do you need a lift? To – to London maybe? My car’s just outside, it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Driving yourself?”

Simon flushed. “No, there’s a  - we have a driver. So we can work, in transit. He won’t mind going there and coming back, though.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say that he would take a cab, and then surrendered to common sense: time, if not of the essence, was still important.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Simon maintained an awkward silence in the car, fidgeting a bit. He clearly felt he should be either chatting to Sherlock or working, but that the latter would be an unforgivable rudeness to his boss’s brother, and the former – Not exactly easy to find the right topic for small-talk with a grief-stricken, possibly deranged junkie who had murdered the best-known criminal in the British Isles less than two months ago.

Sherlock found it grimly pleasing. He had little else to think about for forty minutes, as the countryside went by, green and dreary as usual. But when they reached the outskirts of London he sat up slightly, tensing. There was the familiar pleasure and relief of London, of his city, but also a sharp slice of pain, sharp enough that even though he had been braced for it, he still found himself gritting his teeth and clenching his right hand into a fist. He breathed deeply.

“Tell the driver we’re going to Camden,” he said. “24 Barton Road”.

If Simon was surprised, he didn’t show it. He relayed the instructions, while Sherlock watched the landscape outside become achingly familiar. But by the time they reached Lestrade’s soulless block of flats, he was at least master of himself.

“Thanks for the lift,” he said, picking up his bag and opening the door.

Simon seemed horrified by this banality, which was perhaps not surprising if he'd been briefed by Mycroft on Sherlock's standard behaviour. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Is there anything else, that I can help with?” He sounded nervous, but also sympathetic. Sherlock felt himself wince slightly. He wanted to appear unmoved, terrifying if he must, not in need of pity.

“No,” he said. “I’m fine from here. You’d better get back to work.”

Simon nodded, serious, and Sherlock got out and stood in front of Lestrade’s block, watching as the car pulled away. He could have texted, he supposed. Lestrade might not even be in. This was an unpleasant thought. Sherlock could feel the pull of Baker St, the map of where it was in relation to his current position tugging at him, pathways unfolding. He forcibly shut it away and went to ring Lestrade’s buzzer.

It was answered almost immediately. “Yes?”

Sherlock felt an unwarranted dissipation of tension. “It’s Sherlock,” he said. “Let me in.”

“Sherlock?” said Lestrade, disbelief audible even through the crackling monitor. “If this is someone taking the piss, I’ll – “

“Let me in, for God’s sake. We need to talk.”

“Christ,” said Lestrade. The door buzzed. Sherlock pushed it open and took the stairs, faster than his usual pace. Lestrade’s door was open, and he was watching Sherlock approach. Sherlock stopped in front of him, and they looked at each other.

“You look like shit,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, I know. You’d better come in, I suppose.”

Lestrade’s bachelor flat had always had an air of neglect, as the temporary residence it was: he retreated to it every time he fought with his wife, and rented it out in the good times. Now it had an air not of neglect but misuse. There were clothes piled on the sofa, the bookcase was thick with dust, an old takeout pizza box on the floor, an open bottle of beer on the table beside a number of drink rings, and a TV playing some gameshow, muted, in the background. Lestrade looked similarly uncared for, crumpled and unshaven.

Sherlock surveyed the room, and then walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing his legs deliberately and setting his bag beside him. He took out the laptop and set it on the coffee table.

“Tea?” said Lestrade. “Coffee? If I have any left. I’ve no milk, either. Or you could have a drink, I’m well-stocked there.” He gestured awkwardly towards the beer.

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock.

“You’re fine.” Lestrade collapsed on the sofa next to Sherlock, and took a drink of beer. “Yeah, we’re all fine here.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not more than usual.” Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. “Fuck. Sorry. I really – I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Mycroft had whisked you out of the country somewhere, and you’d probably never come back. Wouldn’t have blamed you, really.”

“He did. My grandmother’s country house, in France.”

“France? You’ve come from there, then?”

“Not exactly. I – escaped. I hitched to Marseille and found a dealer. Mycroft tracked me down eventually, and brought me back to a clinic.”

“Shit, Sherlock. That’s – well. I’d like to say I’m surprised, but. Oh, hell.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw, and took another drink.

“I’m sorry about John. I didn't have a chance to say, before the, before the funeral, it all happened so fast. When I heard – I couldn’t believe it, that he’d taken all that crap so seriously. Anyone who knew him, there’s no way they’d have reckoned he’d done it.”

Sherlock thought about all the people for whom that wasn’t true, with John’s sister at the top of the list.

“He asked me to tell you that he’d – that he was guilty, you know,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “When I last – when we last spoke.” He turned to look at Lestrade fully. “It was a lie, of course. John died for me. To protect me from Moriarty. To protect all of us, as much as he could.”

Lestrade drank two more swallows of beer before answering. Sherlock watched his throat working.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard a rumour that you’d killed that bastard. Was it true?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Wish I could’ve helped.”

“You can help now.”

“Help you? I can’t even bloody help myself. I’m locked out of all the systems, you know. No access. The last time I went out a fucking reporter found me in Tesco’s and snapped me buying a shitload of drink; “Former Head Cop Cracks Up”, page four of the Daily Mail.”

“I’m not here for self-pity,” said Sherlock. “I need you cleared of all charges, and then I need you to fly to the States with me and get Mrs Hudson out of jail.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“No. But I can do it. I promised….that is, I didn’t promise about you. Specifically. But you’re here because of me. You and Mrs Hudson. It’s not acceptable.”

“Acceptable? Christ. You’ve seen the file on me, right?”

“I have it here.” Sherlock gestured towards the laptop.

“Then you know it’s watertight. I can tell them Moriarty planted the drugs here until I’m blue in the face, but there’s no evidence. It’s my word against ten thousand pounds worth of cocaine that magically disappeared from the Yard and showed up hidden in my mattress.”

“There’s no evidence to show you took it, either” said Sherlock. “And you would have had to be a greater fool than anyone could believe of you to steal drugs brought in by you, from a case that you’d signed off.”

Lestrade huffed a breath, bitter. “They’d have believed anything of me, after – “

“After John’s arrest,” said Sherlock, bluntly.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, tiredly. “I’m not going to deny it. Sally especially. I helped her get her last promotion, you know? I thought she’d have my back. And I reckoned she _liked_ John. But she didn’t even think twice. She and Anderson, they were totally bloody convinced you’d been sheltering him all along and I was either in on it or had cracked up under the pressure of finding out.”

He slid down a bit on the sofa, and drained the last of his bottle. “And if I were going to steal ten grand’s worth of cocaine, I wouldn’t fucking hide it in my mattress and leave it sitting there until they came looking.” He set his bottle down on the table.

“Then let’s prove them wrong,” said Sherlock. He opened the laptop and turned it on. “Do you know who planted the drugs?”

Lestrade had been staring into space. He came back to himself and sat up a bit. “Who planted them? Not as such, no. But I asked the neighbour who’s still speaking to me, she said she let in someone in a British Gas uniform, asking for the flat above mine. I told the investigation, but they said they’d checked it out and there was nothing. Look, is there any point to this?”

“They didn’t have Mycroft’s files,” said Sherlock. “And if you were told they investigated, they were lying. They didn’t even ring the company. Look – “ He turned the screen towards Lestrade. “Mycroft has a file on all known associates of Moriarty’s in London and their – skill sets. With photos. This job needed someone either in the Yard or able to get past security, and he had to be good at picking locks. He crossed London with a package of drugs, and I highly doubt he went into the Yard as a meter reader, so he must have changed somewhere on the way, which suggests a vehicle. Vehicles have numberplates. People can be identified through the CCTV network, which my brother has agreed that I can access for the duration of this case. You’ve got a printer, haven’t you? I’ll print out the ten most likely and talk to your neighbour, if she’s in, while you look at them and see if anything seems familiar.”

“Bloody hell,” said Lestrade, staring at the screen. “Where did Mycroft get all this?”

Sherlock shrugged impatiently. “He’s been looking for Moriarty for years, since this all began.” He shook his head slightly, brushing away memories. “I helped him with some of the information, on occasion. The London files aren’t the newest. His people are sending in updates from Europe every day, rooting out the whole network, eliminating Moriarty’s allies.” He narrowed his eyes.

“And if we hurry up and get this done, we can _help_.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for the very long delay. I had hoped to get this wrapped up before the New Year. That now seems unlikely, but I'm not going to abandon it!

Sherlock had been much less confident than he’d sounded about finding Moriarty’s operative, but in fact Lestrade’s neighbour, though she didn’t recognize the photos, had been able to narrow the field considerably by identifying that the man had a Sheffield accent; she came from there herself, she explained, and she’d nearly asked him which bit he was from, but he’d seemed a bit unfriendly. Otherwise, her impressions had the usual vagueness, white, youngish, thin, a bit taller than her. There were five men in Mycroft’s database listed as having Northern backgrounds, and one was five foot three and two were Asian. No address on file for the likeliest prospects. The process of going through the CCTV was tedious, so Sherlock delegated it to Lestrade while he crammed a woollen hat on his head, put on one of Lestrade’s larger and less hideous coats over his suit, and went out to see if any of his contacts were still in their usual haunts. Some weren’t, most were. He found it hard to remember that he hadn’t been away for longer: no-one was surprised to see him, but they were all openly curious. Sherlock was able to use his knowledge of Moriarty’s end to advantage. Once upon a time it would have given him pleasure and satisfaction to boast of it casually, but now it was simply currency, to supplement the currency Mycroft had left him. After four hours of fruitless hunting, someone put him onto Donna, who remembered that a friend on the game had had a regular who’d boasted of being one of Moriarty’s men. The friend was reluctant to speak to Sherlock, but word had already spread. If Moriarty were known to be dead, rather than rumoured to be, then the balance of power had shifted. Five minutes later, Sherlock had a likely description and address, forty minutes later he was outside it.

He rang Lestrade. “I’m in Walworth,” he said. “Found anything yet?”

“Maybe,” said Lestrade. “As I was trying to tell you in the last four phone calls you ignored, I’ve got shots of someone exiting the Yard, looks suspiciously like our man. Come back and I’ll show you.”

“I’m outside the flat of a strong possibility,” said Sherlock. “Care to join me? Might be faster.”

“On my way,” said Lestrade. “Text the address while I flag a cab, will you.”

Sherlock stayed in the shadows, watching the flicker of a TV screen in the suspect’s flat, until a cab pulled out, and Lestrade shoved some cash at the driver and got out, looking around for him. Sherlock stepped forward, nodded at the flat, and they both looked up. Lestrade took out a handful of grainy printouts and passed them over; Sherlock studied them.

“I don’t suppose you kept John’s gun,” said Lestrade without much hope.

“Police took it.” He passed the printouts back.

“Right,” said Lestrade. “Pity. So – are we just going to ring the doorbell, or what?”

“Why not?” said Sherlock.

A woman, or a girl, answered the door, couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Sherlock sized her up and then brushed past, up the stairs, ignoring her protests. The flat door was open and a man was sitting on the sofa, watching TV.  Sherlock felt a small jolt of triumph: he was indisputably the right one. He jumped up as Sherlock strode in, but he wasn’t fast enough. Sherlock knocked him off balance easily, in a couple of moves – it felt alarmingly good to hit someone hard - and then held him to the floor, hand to his throat. He dug his fingers in, contemplating pressure. There was noise behind him, and someone pulling at his shoulder.

“Sherlock,” said Greg, _“Sherlock_ , get off him.”

Sherlock removed his hand from around the man’s throat, reluctantly. He choked and gasped. His eyes flickered to Lestrade and back to Sherlock, panicked.

“I’m calling the police on you!” the girl said, clutching her phone.

“Anyone with nothing to hide would have done so several minutes ago,” Sherlock remarked. “Keep him here,” he ordered Lestrade, getting up. He walked over to the girl, who didn’t have the nous to flee, plucked the phone from her hands, and propelled her by one arm towards the bathroom, where he pushed her in, not particularly gently, and shut the door on her. There was a chair in the hall which would wedge the handle for at least a few minutes. He went back into the living-room, where the man was now lying on his front, Lestrade holding his hands and with a knee in his back.

“Turn him over,” said Sherlock, kicking at him.

Lestrade was wearing a very familiar look of dawning realisation that he’d made a significant error in going along with Sherlock’s plans, but he pulled at the man’s shoulder till he was lying on his back. Sherlock knelt by him.

“Recognize him?” he said to the man on the floor, jerking his head at Lestrade. “You planted a hefty bag of cocaine in his flat, a couple of months back.”

“Dunno what the fuck you’re talking about,” said the man.

“Really?” said Sherlock. He picked up the man’s hand and bent his index finger back, very deliberately.

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade, quietly, from somewhere behind him.

“I’m going to break this finger,” said Sherlock. He smiled. “And then all the rest on this hand. Also I have a knife in my pocket, which I’d be more than happy to use. Creatively. Do you know who I am? I’m the man who shot James Moriarty and watched him die like a rat. And I’d be delighted to kill you. You’re less than nothing to me – and don’t look at Inspector Lestrade for help, after what you did to him.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Lestrade.

“I’ve never seen him before! I swear – “ Sherlock sighed noisily. Then he bent the finger back until he felt the snap. The man made a shocked noise. So did Lestrade. Sherlock picked up the next finger.

“Alright, alright,” the man said, rapidly. “You fucking pyscho. Get him off me!”

“Record this on your phone,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. “Details,” he said to the man.

“Someone called me, said Moriarty was looking for someone with my skills.” He sounded proud despite his situation. “So I did the job for him. OK?”

“No,” said Sherlock. He took out his knife, flicked it open and rested it against the man’s throat, catching on his skin.

“Fucking – look, you don’t say no to him, alright? What was I supposed to do? They sent all the fucking instructions, all the stuff, arranged the car – I just put on a uniform, picked a couple of locks and took a package round to someone’s flat. I didn’t ask any fucking questions, I’m not that fucking stupid.”

“Questionable,” said Sherlock. He closed his knife and slid it back into his pocket. “Got that?” He glanced round at Lestrade, who looked pale but was at least holding his phone. There was a banging from the corridor.

“Got it,” said Lestrade. “None of this is ad – ”  His eyes flashed to the man and then to Sherlock, communicating.

“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock. “Ring the police now. Citizen’s arrest, you knocked on his door, he threatened you, got a bit hurt in the scuffle – I’ll speak to Mycroft and he’ll have a few words. He can get you that footage, too. We can get your neighbour in, ID him properly.”

“And the girl?” said Lestrade.

“I’ll deal with her now,” said Sherlock.

“Like hell you will,” said Lestrade. “ _I’ll_ deal with her. “ He walked out into the hall, dialling and then speaking to someone as he went.  Sherlock stood up and folded his arms. The man on the floor got up, slowly, and subsided onto the sofa, clutching his hand and swearing softly. Sirens sounded in the distance, coming closer. Lestrade came back in, arm round the shoulders of the girl. She shot Sherlock a terrified look, and then fled to sit on the sofa, clutching her boyfriend’s arm.

“Are you staying?” Lestrade said.

“I think not,” said Sherlock. He looked at the man on the sofa. “I was never here,” he said. “You’d best bear that in mind. And confess fully, or I’ll come back without my friend here. I can find you anywhere. You wouldn’t want that, believe me.”

“A word,” said Lestrade, grim, and hustled Sherlock out into the hall, still within view of the couple. Sherlock kept an eye on them, though he thought it unlikely they’d try anything.

“What the fuck was all that?” Lestrade said in a hissed whisper. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, he’s a suspect. You can’t _do_ that.”

“Maybe I’m a psychopath,” Sherlock suggested. “Maybe I’ve gone off the deep end, finally.”

Lestrade gave him a look that was furious, softening into something else.

“Don’t give me that,” he said. “You’re better than that, Sherlock.” He sighed. “Look, obviously you’re not OK, no-one would be. But you’re a good person.” He hesitated. “John knew that.”

Sherlock’s face twitched, without his permission.

“I shouldn’t – look, thanks, I suppose” said Lestrade. “If we can get this to stick  – if he really confesses, you and Mycroft have saved my arse. Just – maybe you need some more time, Sherlock. To – to grieve.”

“I’m flying to Las Vegas in five days,” said Sherlock. “You’re coming with me. Get this sorted out by then. I’ll text you the flight details.”

“Sherlock – ” said Lestrade, but Sherlock was already on his way out.

***

He didn’t know where else to go, so he went home, to Baker St, walking through the night. He stopped in front of the door and thought about setting off again, letting London take him where she would, but he was tired. It had been raining for some time. He opened the door and went upstairs. The house was cold and dark, and musty without the scent of Mrs Hudson’s wax polish. No light under her door, no light under his. His heart was hammering in his throat. He opened the door of 221B and went in, leaving the lights off. There was enough light from streetlamps to see the familiar contours of the living room. The last time he’d been here had been the morning of that day, when he’d found Moriarty’s phone and texted him.  

The last time he’d seen John here John had thought that Sherlock was going to hug him, and Sherlock had seen it and had kissed him instead. Maybe he’d thought it was amusing, that John would anticipate an embrace. It would have been the last time that he had held John properly in his arms, and he hadn’t done it.

Sherlock took off Lestrade’s coat, now soaked, and hung it up on the coatstand. Then he shut the living-room door behind him quietly, though there was no-one to care about doors being slammed, and slid to the floor, back against it. He put his arms round his knees and lowered his head, screwing his eyes shut, like a small child hiding. It didn’t make any difference, the smell of home surrounded him. He had tortured someone earlier in the night, he’d genuinely wanted to hurt him, he hadn’t cared. It seemed very far away already. How could he – how could anything _work_ , without John here. How could things just go on, how could he be expected to stay clean, to remember, to feel –

Sherlock, in his mind, walked through the doors of his memory palace, helpless to stop himself. On the right, behind a set of double doors that were usually left open, was the east wing, which had been cleared out some time ago and left for John. He pulled at the doors, and they opened smoothly, without resistance. Everything was there, everything from the first time he’d seen John at Barts, all neatly arranged. He willed himself to wreck it, to pull it all down, to set it on fire. But in his head, surrounded by memories, he sank down, just as he had in Baker St, and let implacable grief shake him at last.

**

“I need to speak to him,” said John, as politely as he could muster, scrolling through the file on his laptop.

“I’m sorry, Mr, err – I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” Simon – was it Simon? – said. He sounded fucking _sympathetic_.

“Then I’m not doing it.”

The man on the line coughed.

“Put me on to Mycroft Holmes. Or if you can’t fucking do it, put me on to someone above your pay grade.”

“Look.” He sounded furtive. “Um. I’ve had very strict instructions. To tell you – “ he sighed “ - to tell you that if you insisted on, on this kind of thing, or if you were to get, well, the word used was ‘awkward’, I was to say that you would be cut loose.”

“‘Cut loose’. And what. Precisely. Does that mean?” John was losing his temper. His grip on the phone was dangerously tight. He stared at the face of the woman in the file, caught walking down the street hand in hand with a man. She looked young, pretty, carefree, putting up one hand to brush back her dark hair as she smiled at her companion. Whatever the file claimed, she did not look like someone who deserved John Watson knocking on her door.

“It means no further contact. You’d be on your own.” The man – Simon – seemed to have gained in confidence, back in the safe territory of rules and regulations. 

John rubbed his forehead. On his own, how? The people he’d killed for Mycroft had accomplices. Friends. Loved ones. It would be easy to hand John over to them. He assumed Mycroft wouldn’t leave a loose end knocking about Europe. He assumed that if he tried to get on a plane to England and find Sherlock, not that Sherlock was necessarily in the country, for all he knew, he’d be arrested, at very best, before he got to the departure gate.

“I see.” He let silence fall on the line.

“Sir – um?” Back to sympathy. “I was the one who sent the file. I know she looks, you know, ordinary, but I did some of the background research on her and she’s running some serious fraud.”

“Fraud,” said John. “Right.”

“No, I mean – ” Christ, he was earnest, where the hell had Mycroft picked him up? “I mean the guy in the picture? On the street? He died a week ago. Three men took him into an alley and stabbed him. It took him about an hour to bleed to death. If you look at page – hang on – section 5.7.2, page 81, there’s some information that ties her in to his death; I mean, we have her meeting with them, handing over money – and her bank accounts are associated with – ”

“Enough,” said John. “I’m not going to fucking kill her. I’m going to find her and hand her over to the nearest police station and you lot will take it from there. OK?”

He waited, wondering if Simon had a manual to deal with this suggestion. They _needed_ John, who else were they going to get who could do this?

“I think – I’ll need to run that by my superior, of course – but I think we could work with that.”

“Good. We’re clear.”

“Yes.” There was a pause. John told himself to hang up. He didn’t have to wonder why he was still on the line, it was such a relief to speak in English. He had a shameful, pathetic desire to keep talking, even to one of Mycroft’s minions.

Simon cleared his throat. “Mr Holmes’s brother is back in London,” he said, softly, so softly John wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“What?” he said.

“He’s in London. They got him back.”

Got him back from _where_ , John wanted to ask, but he was afraid that if he pushed at all, Simon would clam up and revert to officialese. He hadn’t even been sure Simon knew who he was. He must be higher up in the food chain than John had supposed.

“Is he…OK?” he said carefully.

“He’s getting better, I think. He’s going to be helping us, Mr Holmes said. Um, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but since we’re all on the same side…”

“Of course,” said John. His chest felt constricted, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got to go,” Simon said. “Good luck with the assignment.” There was a click, and the line went dead.

John set the phone down, and looked at the screen without seeing it. Sherlock was getting better. That was good, presumably. It implied he hadn’t been OK, but now he was. Good. Brilliant. They’d all be working for Mycroft, like one big happy family. He took a deep breath, and another. This was what he had wanted for Sherlock: it was unfair to feel such fury, such hurt. He had wanted Sherlock to have Mycroft on his side. Sherlock couldn’t be on John’s side if he thought John was dead. So he was moving on. By the time John got back home – and he hadn’t been able to help wondering if the plan was that he never would – he might not have a home to return to.

“Work it out,” John said, to his computer. But whether he was talking to Sherlock, or himself, he wasn’t sure.

**

Las Vegas the second time round was worse than the first, much worse, because everything that Sherlock had seen there the first time, he’d expected to tell John about. He was glad of Lestrade by his side, commenting on the skyscrapers like a tourist, insisting on watching the dancing fountains, loading a plate with glee at the all-you-can-eat buffet. He was reluctantly grateful that Lestrade had gone to meet Mrs Hudson without asking Sherlock to come along, without expressing surprise: Sherlock’s whole mind shied away from the idea of a prison waiting room, from the smell and the guards and the watchful cameras. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come, he thought, watching his hands shake on the laptop keyboard as he broke into the hotel’s employee records. There were a lot of drugs available in Las Vegas. A few hours in its back streets, hell, a few hours on the casino floor, a few _minutes_ looking for the right people, and he could be oblivious – or just oblivious enough to be able to work, to keep it together. He hadn’t slipped in London, conscious of Mycroft’s hovering presence, but there was still that nagging itch under his skin, the knowledge that everything could be made to go away, for a while. But then there was Lestrade, back already, setting a cup of coffee beside him, turning on the television and starting a running commentary on the rules of American football.

“How was she?” said Sherlock abruptly, clicking through records. He didn’t turn around.

“Not so bad,” said Lestrade, silencing the television. By the sound of it, he was sitting on the bed. “She’s a tough old thing, Mrs H. Told me she’d been getting on with her knitting, making baby clothes for the kids of the girls in there and a jumper for her lawyer. He sounds OK, she said to say thanks to you and Mycroft for finding him.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, scrolling. He heard two thumps, Lestrade had kicked his shoes off.

“I’m starving, we should order room service. She’s worried about you, by the way. I didn’t tell her anything. I said that Mycroft had been looking after you.”

Sherlock made a noise of contempt. He’d found the right record, finally. He’d been half-convinced that Moriarty’s minions might have been ordered to get rid of Raul in the event of Moriarty’s death, but apparently they hadn’t – either they didn’t care, or they were in too much disarray, or they didn’t think it necessary because they assumed Sherlock hadn’t had time to find him, first time round. Sherlock noted down the address on file. It was different to the one he’d found previously. He looked it up and confirmed that it was in a smarter part of town. So Raul was spending money, but he’d still kept his job at the hotel, with fewer shifts than before. Part of the deal? Sherlock replayed his conversation with Moriarty. If he’d thought Mrs Hudson’s innocence could be established straightforwardly, within a day or two, he would have needed to keep his chosen murderer close at hand. Convenient.

He turned round. Lestrade was leaning back on his elbows on the bed, studying the room service menu.

“I’ve got an address,” he said. “Our suspect isn’t due into work until tomorrow. We should go and see if he’s in.”

“Right now?” said Lestrade. “OK, if you say so. I can eat later, I suppose.”

“You worry about food too much.”

“You could stand to worry a little more, you’re skin and bone.”

Sherlock blinked. In John’s bed in Baker St, John leaning up on an elbow, running his fingertips down Sherlock’s side, over the slight bumps of his ribs.

“You’re skin and bone,” he’d said, fond and reproving. “Now that we’re shagging I’m going to make you eat properly.”

“We’re not shagging right now,” Sherlock had pointed out. Just the slide of John’s fingertips over his skin, just that light touch, made his voice catch, his skin prickle, his body try to strain towards John.

“No?” John had said, and his fingers had slid lower, towards where Sherlock was already aching for his touch.

Now, in the hotel room, Sherlock stood up abruptly. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to the bathroom and shut the door. He sat on the floor, back against the bath, and tried to breathe.

There was a knock on the door.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, you’ve been in there twenty minutes. Let me in.”

“Door’s unlocked,” Sherlock said, thickly.

Lestrade tried the door.

“Are you – ” he said, and then saw Sherlock. “Oh. Sorry.”

Sherlock blinked, and swiped a hand across his wet cheek. Lestrade sat down on the toilet seat and passed him some toilet paper. Sherlock took it and blew his nose. He felt exhausted.

“It’s OK,” said Lestrade, quietly.

“I know it’s OK,” said Sherlock. He breathed out and looked at Lestrade, whose face was kind, familiar. His body missed touch. He met Lestrade’s eyes, held them, narrowing his own slightly.

“If I kissed you, what would you do?”

Lestrade blinked, though he didn’t seem otherwise surprised. “I’d tell you I’m not attracted to men,” he said. “And that grief can take you in funny ways. You miss John. That’s normal. Wouldn’t make it better to have sex with me, even if I was up for it.”

Sherlock shrugged. He balled up the tissue in his hand.

“Mrs Hudson,” said Lestrade. “Come on, tell me what to do.” He held out a hand and Sherlock took it, letting himself be pulled up.

***

They sat in the car on the street opposite Raul’s house, watching for other watchers. Raul himself hadn’t given their car a glance, when he’d pulled up and let his children out, laden down with school bags and the two older boys in new-looking football kit and boots. Lestrade had sighed a little at the sight of them.

“Definitely him?” he said. The little girl tugged on her father’s arm and he lifted her up, tucking her under his arm as she giggled, carrying her into the house.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He glanced at Lestrade. “Moriarty would have rather used an ordinary person for this, someone with strong family ties to the area. He likes to involve civilians. Easier to manipulate, less likely to run. He needed a killer who was on hand when he wanted him.”

Lestrade’s face was still dissatisfied.

“Randall Mackenzie had a family too,” Sherlock added.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. He blew out a breath. “If there’s anyone trailing him, they’re not here,” he said. “What’s the plan? I’m not going in there with his kids about.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Sherlock. “He’s not going anywhere. He’s less likely to confess, especially to us, than our man in London, anyway, since he has more to lose. We need a case before the confession, in this instance.”

Lestrade drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “We’ve got proof someone paid him for something,” he said. “Nothing else, though.”

“They didn’t pay him in cash. And we’ve got him in the right place at the right time. We need to trace the bank transfer – Mycroft can help if needs be – and track his movements in the run-up. Someone met him, someone contacted him with instructions. Chances are he’s following the same routines; you can question everyone he sees in a usual day, while I track the finances. Once we have a little more, we’ll hand it over to Mrs Hudson’s lawyer and let him do the work. And to the British press, naturally.”

He scowled. He’d forced himself to read the coverage before leaving London. The press had linked Mrs Hudson to John and Sherlock even before John’s death, and the initial coverage had more or less suggested that they were all part of a criminal network. After John’s death and Sherlock’s disappearance, however, an astute BBC journalist had put two and two together and come up with Moriarty. She’d sent Sherlock a long email and rung a few times, but she hadn’t had enough to go on. It would be her lucky day soon, though.

Lestrade frowned. “If you say so. Back now, then?” He started the car.

Sherlock nodded, lost in thought.

In the event it was another three days before Sherlock tracked the financial records back to a company in the Cayman islands that Mycroft’s team had definitively linked to Moriarty’s organization, and Lestrade found a waitress in Raul’s favoured diner who remembered him meeting with two strange men, on at least two occasions. Her details and the bank details went to the lawyer, the police and the journalist simultaneously. Sherlock was afraid of the boredom that was waiting to pounce. He didn’t want to leave the US without Mrs Hudson, but he chafed to be back in London, doing something, even if it meant working for Mycroft. When Lestrade announced his boredom with Las Vegas and suggested a road trip, he went along. Desert, cheap motels, scenery, tourists, more tourists. John would have loved it. Sherlock hated almost everything about it. It felt like an exercise in endurance, in penance; no-one they saw had anything interesting to deduce, no-one was worth bothering with. After five days Lestrade looked at him over breakfast, sighed in a disturbingly familiar way, and set down the menu.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

“We should stay until…”

“No,” said Lestrade. “You hate it here. And I’m worried about you. You barely eat, you’re sitting up most of the night, you spend most of the time staring off into space. I don’t want to tell Mycroft that you took off into the desert on my watch, Sherlock. Let’s trust the authorities to sort out Mrs H, if she doesn’t sort them out first, and you – or, I don’t know, we - can get on with tracking down more of Moriarty’s men, yeah?”

Sherlock exhaled. “Yes,” he said. “How soon can we leave?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay in continuing this, and the relative shortness of this update. Work has been relentless and spare time non-existent since January. I cannot promise fast and regular updates, but there will definitely be more updates and I hope this will be finished in the not very distant future. 
> 
> There is a cameo appearance by a S3 character here. In case this worries you, don't be concerned, there's no further plot relating to this character here; I just liked the idea of writing in a brief scene. 
> 
> If you cast your mind back many months to the previous chapter, Sherlock was about to return to London with Lestrade to help Mycroft track down Moriarty's associates, and John was wandering round Europe anonymously taking out these associates.

Three weeks passed, with John twiddling his thumbs in a hotel in Riga. The town was quite pretty, he supposed, if you liked that kind of thing. Plus he could have gone drinking with British stag parties every night if he’d wanted to: the bars were heaving with them. He went for long walks. He sat in cafes. He cleaned his gun and restricted himself to checking his email and phone every half-hour and googling Sherlock’s name once a day, as an evening ritual. Perhaps this was Mycroft’s way of punishing him for insubordination, showing him how dependent he was on having something to do, no matter what it was.

When his mobile finally rang, John snatched it up and tried not to sound too eager. Not Simon, a bland woman’s voice giving him the password and login to download the newest file. He had to force himself to walk at a normal pace back to his hotel. He’d wondered what his next assignment would be given his protest at the last: something that drew him back from assassination, or that upped the game?

The file, as he scanned it, seemed to leave it up to him. Surveillance: terminate if necessary. He’d never had that particular instruction before, but certainly, if they wanted him to exercise judgement, he would do. He studied the picture of the man he was to watch, who looked like your typical East European gangster, tattoos, shaved head, expression of suspicion. Gun-running, drugs, pornography, prostitution, and a few murders that had been traced back to orders from Moriarty’s lot: the usual, then. John felt himself smiling, tight, at the photo. He memorized the address, which was in a dodgy area he recognized from his walks, repacked the bag he generally took with him, and set out.

After only a night of tailing, John was ready to say that ‘prostitution’ had been pretty euphemistic. The girls coming in and out of the flats were easily fifteen or under and they all looked terrified; stumbling in their high heels on the cobbled street, eyes dazed. John walked behind a pair of them, unobtrusively, and was pretty sure that they were speaking Russian. Not locals, then. He considered his moral compass. It was perhaps not justifiable to shoot someone for being the scum of the earth, but it was certainly tempting. He wondered what Mycroft and his network were expecting him to do, otherwise; he was hardly the world’s most efficient spy given his rubbish language skills.

After four days of confirming that his target most probably would not leave a grieving world behind him, John decided he was getting bored with this and that the best option would be to have a chat in person. Sod it all, he thought, as he knocked on the door in full view of the entire street, he hadn’t signed up for surveillance. He cocked his head and smiled at the identikit minion at the door.

“Mikhail?” he said. “Mikhail Cirksis?”

The minion gaped at him, scratching his head. After a minute or so he must have decided John was worth it, because he turned round to call something upstairs. But just then there was another noise, which John instantly recognized as a gunshot – a cry, and the sound of something heavy falling to the ground overhead. The minion rushed up the stairs, shouting, reaching for something in his pocket, and John, nerves alight, followed a few steps behind. As the man in front of him reached the first-floor landing and crashed the door open there was another shot, close, and he made a strangled noise; John barely had time to step aside before his body fell heavily backwards.

He spared a quick glance down, ears ringing, without lowering his weapon: shot in the head, survival chances zero. Then he looked through the doorway at the person facing him and blinked, properly startled for the first time. She was smaller than him, a woman maybe in her thirties with brown chin-length hair and an unremarkable face, casually and practically dressed in jeans, trainers and a black bomber jacket. But something about her stance and the way she held her gun suggested that she was at least as professional as John was, if not more. He flicked his eyes downwards to her feet for a couple of seconds, where the body of his mark was lying, blood spreading outwards around his head.

She said something in Latvian, which John couldn’t follow, but the hand gesture she made was easily comprehensible. Her hand on the gun was steady, pointed dead at his skull. He lowered his weapon to the ground and then stood up slowly, raising his hands in front of him. It was unreasonable to feel confident that she wouldn’t shoot him, yet he felt more curious than anything else.

She spoke again, a string of sentences, ending with a question, in which John recognized only the name of the man lying dead at her feet. He shrugged slightly and made an apologetic face.

“English,” he said.

The woman, unexpectedly, smiled.

“Should have guessed,” she said, in a generically British accent, no Eastern European edge to it. John’s eyebrows went up. “So, to translate, who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I think,” said John, nodding towards the body at his feet without taking his eyes off her. “Only you beat me to it.”

“Huh,” she said. She frowned at him. There was a confused sound of shouting in the street below them, getting louder. Footsteps started to pound up the stairs.

“Well,” she said. “Love to know who you’re working for, but I’ve got to go.” She scanned John again. “Café Apollo at 9pm. If you make it out, that is.” She backed away from John as she spoke. There was another door at the end of the room, open, and she backed through it, swivelled and was gone.

“Fuck,” said John, and followed her.

***

It was well after 7 by the time he got back to his hotel, slipping in through the staff entrance and up the never-used stairs, having dodged the pursuit through every backstreet he could find. It had started pissing it down five minutes after he left the building, and he was soaked, limping, and shaking with adrenaline. It had been close; very close. No sign of the woman anywhere, she’d only been seconds ahead of him, but she’d comprehensively vanished by the time John hit the street. He went to strip and shower, scowling at himself in the mirror. He was getting old, slow. And whoever she was, she was dangerous. He had better things to do than meet female assassins in bars: this was not some fucking spy drama.

Nonetheless, after the sputtering but hot shower had worked out some of his aches, he found himself carefully getting dressed in his slightly smarter pair of jeans and shirt, feeling unreasonably pleased that they were clean, and checking his watch. It was a central café, the one she’d suggested. Difficult for her to do anything dodgy in one of the main squares, unless she poisoned his drink or something.

I’m gathering intelligence, John told himself firmly, and he checked his street map and set out.

**

“Didn’t think you’d come,” she said, smiling at him warmly and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was reading a Rough Guide to Europe and sipping white wine, wearing a flowery dress, earrings, and shoes that John didn’t reckon you could run away from armed criminals in, though he couldn’t say for sure. It was a warm night: the square was still full of people.

“Yes, well,” said John. He realised he had no idea what to say in this scenario. “Can I get you another?”

The woman’s eyes crinkled. She was attractive, though not in an Irene Adler way. More like the kind of woman John would have approached in a pub, in the old days, before.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

John sat down, signalling to the waiter. “OK,” he said. “So – what’s your, I mean, what should I call you?”

“Hmm,” she said. “How about Alison?”

“OK,” said John. “Nice to meet you, Alison. I’m – umm, you can call me William. Will.”

The waiter came over and John gave his order, not looking to see whether she was laughing at his halting phrases.  They drank for a couple of minutes in silence, looking at the people passing. Then John mustered his courage.

“Right,” he said. “Well – are we going to talk about earlier? Or not?”

Alison shrugged, looking out across the square. “Cirksis was a bastard,” she said. “His employees and his wife are probably throwing a party right now.” She glanced around at the other tables and then turned to John, her expression losing some of its warmth, sizing him up.

“I don’t know you, which means you haven’t been around long or you’re working for a private client. Maybe both. But no-one in Cirksis’ little gang has the means or the brains to hire someone British, and you’re not faking the accent and the dress. I saw you watching him, you know. You’re not exactly subtle. Not as stupid as hired muscle, but not intelligence either.”

“Ta very much,” said John, stung.

She rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t an insult,” she said. She looked him over again, thoughtful. “You know, you do seem familiar from somewhere, though.”

John heartrate picked up. He’d been all over the press, even in Europe. He’d stopped wondering if people would recognize him a few weeks in, but this woman was obviously smarter than most, and if she had come from the UK…

“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t look so bloody panicked. I don’t actually care who your employers are, as long as you’re going to keep your mouth shut and not get in my way.”

John looked around in turn. No-one was paying the slightest attention to them. “He was a bastard,” he said, quietly. “I don’t care that you shot him. I don’t care who you are or who you work for. You don’t tell on me, and I won’t tell on you, and we’re good.”

“Good,” she said. “Let’s drink to that.” She raised her glass, and John clinked his beer bottle against it.

She sat back, her eyes gleaming, appraising. John let himself look at her, noticing despite himself the shadows of her cleavage and the way her dress clung to her.

“OK then,” he said. He gestured at the guidebook. “Got any tips?”

She threw her head back and laughed, unashamed, and John found himself smiling at her, the muscles of his face stretching into an unfamiliar shape.

***

Alison, or whatever her real name might be, was easy company. They talked about Riga, about other European capitals, about places they’d both been; chatting like any pair of professional fellow-travellers. But there was an edge there, an edge of secrecy and danger that John couldn’t help enjoying. All these weeks, he’d been so alone, and now – he wasn’t sure what it said about him that he was so comfortable with a woman simply because he knew for sure she’d shot and killed a man. Two men, indeed. And doubtless more, if she really did this for a living. He didn’t really want to know.

The light started to fade, and John became aware that he’d had one or two beers more than he’d intended.

“I’d better head back,” he said, reluctantly.

“Oh?” she said, smiling at him. “Shame. I was just going to ask you back to my hotel room for a coffee.”

John laughed before he could stop himself. “Oh, were you,” he said.

“Mm-hmm. And you were going to say yes.”

John swallowed. He should have seen this coming. He knew he’d been flirting – it was such a relief to do something so normal, and she was definitely his type – but Sherlock…

Alison was watching him, looking amused. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” she said. “In fact, I’ll probably kick you out around 2am so that I can get some sleep. Your choice, no strings attached, no scruples.”

John looked and her and, God, he wanted to strip her out of that dress, to show her that even if he hadn’t slept with a woman in what seemed like years, he still knew what he was doing.

He licked his lips. “OK,” he said. “A coffee would be great.”

***

John was back in his own hotel room by three. He showered, again, letting the water run over his face, washing all traces of Alison away. He’d had sex with her and he didn’t even know her real name, probably he’d never see her again.

He might have regretted that more if the evening had ended before her hotel room: not that what he was feeling was her fault, not at all, she was fun and attractive and they’d been good together. The pleasures of being with a woman, with someone - someone different , with soft curves and breasts and damp heat – he’d been surprised by the strength of his craving for her, for the intimacy of fucking someone. For a one-night stand, it had been one of the best he’d had.

And now, of course, he felt like shit. He switched off the shower, and listened to the humming silence of the hotel room, and wanted Sherlock so acutely that he could hardly breathe through it.

This kind of thing had been his life, before Sherlock. Short-lived affairs and near-anonymous sex, charming someone while knowing you could walk out on them in the morning. Alison wasn’t unlike some of the women he’d met in his army days, come to that. And then he’d had something else, something more, someone who understood him, who saw through him, someone who knew everything there was to know about him and liked it, who could give him one sideways look and make his knees weaken with lust. And he’d lost that, or thrown it away; it wasn’t clear any more which choices had been his, and which had not.

Maybe, he thought to himself, bleakly, shivering and reaching for a towel, tonight had been about proving something to himself; acknowledging that it didn’t matter if he slept with other people, because at bottom he had stopped expecting that he would ever see Sherlock again.

***

Sherlock was working late when his mobile rang, alone in the grand and empty office that Mycroft had assigned to him, in a featureless office building in the City. The sign on their floor stated that they were an accounting firm, which was apparently Mycroft’s idea of a joke. There were a number of others working in this set of offices, but Sherlock could generally manage to ignore almost all of them and had only the vaguest idea who they might be. He hadn’t even bothered deducing anything about the majority. If they worked for Mycroft, either there would be nothing at all of interest about them or they would have been carefully trained to hide it. At times in the past it had been entertaining to work out which of these options was the case. Now, it held no interest.

This evening Simon had come in at some point, left a cup of coffee on the desk for him, and left again, thankfully without attempting conversation. The coffee was stone cold, though Sherlock had been sipping it at intervals in any case. He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been there.

The phone buzzed on his desk. He looked at the screen: unknown caller.

“Hello?” he said.

“Sherlock,” said Irene. He blinked. Even in one word, she sounded wary.

“I’m at – work,” he said. He stopped himself from asking if it was urgent: she was hardly calling for a friendly chat.

“Get a pay-as-you-go mobile and then call me back,” said Irene. “You have my number. I’m available for – oh, the next two hours, but I’ll expect to speak to you sooner.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and hung up. He blinked at his monitor, unable to recall what he’d been working on, then stood up abruptly and left the office. Best to do this quickly, in case Mycroft was checking his calls, he’d been assured that the building and his phone weren’t bugged, but it was unwise to put entire trust in this assurance.

He rang Irene back fifty minutes later from a street corner, tucked in a doorway, enough traffic and pedestrian noise to make it slightly difficult to hear, and a good spot to be alone in the crowds of night-time London.

“Took your time,” she said.

“What is it?” said Sherlock.

Irene sighed, he thought. “It’s your brother’s little sideline in assassination. I need it stopped.”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

“What do you know?” he said.

“I know I’m on the list,” she said. “As are a number of my friends. And, my dearest, Sherlock, yours, even excluding myself. Does the name Lucien ring any bells? Ex-Etonian drug dealer, living in Marseille? I’m sending through the photos.”

There was a brief pause, and then Sherlock’s phone beeped twice. He lowered it from his ear and clicked the message, studying the picture as it loaded. The quality on this cheap phone was abysmal. A man slumped in the corner of a room, face down to his chest and invisible. Some dark liquid was pooled beside him. But it was Lucien’s build, his height, his skin colour, his clothing or very similar, and the wallpaper and floor were glaringly familiar. In the second photo, the body was lying on the floor, so that a neat bullet-hole was visible in the forehead. The face was swollen, changed, but it was almost certainly him.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out. He raised the phone again.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“That was three days ago,” said Irene. “Your brother and his cronies are supposed to be taking down Moriarty’s network, but it seems they’re going a tad off-message when the impulse strikes. Someone’s been watching me. Someone good. I’m better, of course. But a little bird tells me that my observer might be followed by a shot in the dark in a couple of weeks.”

“Lucien was, as you note, a drug dealer,” said Sherlock, enunciating the ‘was’ with particular clarity. “Even if you’re telling the truth, anyone could be responsible. You were working for Moriarty. He wasn’t.”

“Very much past tense, in my case,” said Irene. “My involvement with _Jim_ was freelance only, and for a very short time, as Mycroft Holmes is well aware. I’ve never been the employee type. I happened to have someone with eyes on your friend in Marseille, Sherlock, just to satisfy my curiosity, and she told me that the killer was an unknown and unremarkable Englishman who spent two days in a nearby hotel, then broke into the apartment, made the kill and left quietly. That’s not a drug deal gone wrong, my sweet. It’s big brother meting out his idea of justice.”

She paused, for Sherlock to comment, and when he didn’t speak, she sighed at him. “I’m settled here – and never you mind where that is, it’s strictly need-to-know – and I don’t want to have to leave.”

“You’re in Italy,” said Sherlock. “Venice? Or Rome, possibly.”

Irene laughed. “I’m entertained,” she said. “But it’s hardly the time for showing off your tricks. You owe me, you may recall. I want your help. Find out who’s doing your brother’s dirty work and shut them down, or pass their details to me and I’ll see they get to the right party. He doesn’t have access to a stable of trained assassins, does he? And this one’s untrained, from what I hear. Lacks finesse. Should take you about five minutes, and you can have revenge for your friend into the bargain.”

“He wasn’t my friend,” said Sherlock.

“Tell me you aren’t curious about the mysterious sudden executions or arrests of over ten of Moriarty’s closest intimates. Tell me you haven’t been looking into it yourself. Tell me you’re convinced that the British government signed off on every one of these. Tell me – tell me you aren’t curious about where and when your brother found a 007 who would obey his every command. You’re not involved in this, are you? I did wonder, but this little chat has been helpful in that respect.”

“Anyone can pull a trigger,” said Sherlock. “It’s hardly a rare skill-set. And the people you’re describing were not exactly innocent. Besides, it’s none of my business who does Mycroft’s dirty work.”

“Stop havering, Sherlock,” said Irene sharply. “I’m calling in the favour, and we both know you’re going to do exactly as I’m asking. Shut this down, preferably quickly. I have faith in you. I’ll be watching.”

She hung up, abruptly. Sherlock lowered the phone, thumbing it to look again at the photos she had sent. He tried to feel as little as possible, these days, but couldn’t prevent a pang of something: regret, anger. Lucien had been kind to him, in his fashion. If this were him, and if Mycroft really were responsible, then Sherlock would find out and there would be hell to pay.

He leant back against the wall and tapped the phone against his lips, considering. Then he set off, breaking the phone apart and dropping the parts down a set of drains as he passed, heading not back to the chill of Baker St, but to the overly warm office and its bland secrets.

***

Sherlock worked all night, impatient with the way that his eyes began to ache and his wrists tingle; he took some painkillers, irritably, and carried on typing. He wasn’t alone in the offices: some of the staff were always on duty. They were accustomed to leaving him to himself.

Moriarty’s network had been more substantial than they had ever imagined, and unravelling its threads required a great deal of patience in relation to the occasional flash of insight. Sherlock would have raged at the dullness of this work, previously. Now he almost welcomed its numbing regularity, the effort of accruing the patient detail that would lead to a name to pass on, a shadowy figure coming into focus. He had not as yet particularly concerned himself with what happened after that point.

Sometimes he worked in the offices for nights and days on end, stretching out on the full-length couch Mycroft had helpfully provided if he needed some rest.. If more than forty-eight hours had passed, Anthea could usually be relied on to show up with a freshly pressed suit and escort him to the shower provided in the building. Sometimes he thought about bringing his violin in, and then he would never have to return to 221B again. Mrs Hudson was still stuck in the painfully slow legal system of the States, though at least she was out of jail and waiting for her trial date; and without her, the house was gradually sliding into must and squalor.

His desktop chimed with an alert at 7, and then more insistently a few minutes later, after he ignored it. He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and went to the loo to splash cold water on his face. He studied himself in the mirror, arranging his hair a little, undoing an extra button, considering whether he would pass without shaving. He couldn’t generally tell what onlookers found more or less attractive about his appearance, which was, at times, frustrating.

John had – Sherlock cut that thought off automatically, and then paused. Lestrade had suggested, when he’d last been hanging around in Sherlock’s office taking up space, that perhaps he ought not to attempt to delete all his memories of John, clearly paying no attention to Sherlock trying to explain that this had been a futile exercise in any case. He had suggested that Sherlock had to let himself remember if he wanted – if he wanted ultimately to forget. To move on.

Of course, moving on implied that there was an ‘on’ to move to. Lestrade was well-meaning, yet he still never seemed to understand that Sherlock had no interest in moving on, in meeting someone new. The thought of it was both laughable and repulsive. He had lived for over thirty years without John, and then he had briefly had him, and now he did not. It was not so much a case of moving on as moving _back_. Whether this would be possible or not remained to be seen.

What he was remembering, involuntarily, now, was the way in whichJohn had always served as a barometer for how Sherlock’s clothes or appearance would affect others, both openly in his seemingly light and ironic comments, and covertly, in the quick glance over Sherlock and away, the bob of his throat, the darkening of his gaze that would only be visible if someone knew him very well and was observing him very closely.

John had looked at the grey shirt that Sherlock was wearing now, in that particular way. “Nice shirt,” he‘d said, the first time Sherlock had worn it, looking up for no more than five seconds before returning to his paper. It had taken Sherlock months to read these signs, but he had got there in the end.

Sherlock became aware that he was turning his fingers over and over under the running water of the cold tap, without remembering turning it on. His fingers felt numb. He looked at himself again. He very much doubted he was at his best, but it probably wouldn’t matter.

***

“Simon,” said Sherlock, twenty minutes later. He slid his chair back from the desk a little, swivelling to angle himself towards Simon, stretching so that the shirt tightened across his chest and uncoiling a leg. He smiled with as much charm as he could muster. Simon’s eyes widened to an almost comical degree and Sherlock inwardly rolled his eyes and sighed. He had been shamelessly exploiting Simon’s interest in him for quite some time, though he’d never needed to do so this blatantly.

“I’m interested in what’s been happening in Europe,” he said, keeping his eyes intent on Simon’s face. He tapped his fingers on the pile of printouts on his desk, without looking away.

“These arrests, these….deaths. I’m concerned that the connections between them will be obvious to the outside world – press, media…You’re responsible for that area, aren’t you?”

He watched Simon swallow, reading his emotions as they passed across his transparent face. He’d expected anxiety or embarrassment, chagrin, but Simon looked almost – apologetic. Not that this was in any way surprising, given that it was his default mode, but still.

“We, umm,” said Simon. His eyes slid to the papers. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you, Mr Holmes. It’s, umm, very classified.”

“Really,” said Sherlock. “Because I’m _very_ concerned. I’m been working on this all night, and I’m planning to carry on doing so. In fact, I thought I might do a bit of travelling, confirm my suspicions…”

“Suspicions?” Simon visibly swallowed.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He lowered his voice, confiding, leaning forward a little. “You know something about this, don’t you, Simon? I know how much my brother trusts you.” He looked up at Simon from under his eyelashes.

But something wasn’t right. Simon was supposed to be coaxed and coerced into giving away Mycroft’s plans and the assassin or whoever’s current location. He should have been further shaken, unsettled, at Sherlock’s mercy. Yet instead his steady brown eyes were gazing at Sherlock in almost a _pitying_ way.

Sherlock started to frown, eyes taking in detail. There was nothing usable, though, just some noise about Simon’s dry-cleaners and the off-ness of his on-off relationship.

Simon glanced around, and then leant down a little, mirroring Sherlock.

“It’s not right,” he said. “I’ve gone along with this, but….” He ran his hands through his hair, straightening, and bit his lip, looking around the deserted office again. Sherlock waited.

Simon scanned his desk, picked up a pen and one of Sherlock’s post-it notes, scribbled something quickly, folded the note and set it down on the desk.

“Try here, this Thursday at 11pm in the evening. I’ll make up something for, umm, for my boss about where you’ve gone. That’s the best I can do.”

Sherlock reached for the note, not bothering with thanks.

“Sherlock?” said Simon, and Sherlock glanced up at him, hoping nothing more would be required.

“Just – I’m sorry,” said Simon. His mouth twisted into a peculiar expression for a moment, almost a grimace, and then he nodded towards the note and headed for the office door, closing it gently behind him.

Sherlock looked after him for an instant, considering, then he dismissed it. He’d been absolutely correct that Simon had something to do with this whole business and now he had a lead: that was all that mattered. He read the post-it note, shut his eyes a moment to calculate travel times and the possible ways that Mycroft would attempt to stop him, should he find out, and then stood to leave. Maybe he could even get himself killed, doing this – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered it as a way to get out of his promises to John and Mycroft. Or maybe, once he tracked down the person he was looking for, he would simply escort them back to London and leave them outside Mycroft’s office door, like a cat with a mouse.  Either way, recklessness, danger, and causing maximum irritation to his brother. John would have raised God knows how many objections to this plan – Sherlock could nearly hear him, waiting in one of the closed sections of his mind palace to offer up a lecture - and Lestrade probably would as well, in the here and now, if he knew about it. Good, thought Sherlock, defiant, and reached for his coat.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still working on this. Just at a glacial pace, and I apologise to those of you following along for the lengthy waits. But I was determined to put up even a short chapter before leaving the internet and my laptop behind for a whole ten days while I go on holiday, so here you are. Thank you for comments on the last chapter, many of which I may not even have answered due to my guilt over this fic and the time it is taking!

Sherlock walked casually, though purposefully, through the park, dark glasses firmly in place, sleeves casually rolled up. Past the giggling crowds of children around a small collection of cheap and noisy fairground rides, past the candy-floss sellers and ice-cream carts and dark-eyed Romanian children trying to sell him rosebuds spiked stiff with wire, following the path that led away from the crowd. Dusk was falling, though the entertainment was still going strong, coloured lights sparkling through the gloom. The grass under the trees was thin and dusty. It was cooler in the shades of the small park than on the streets outside, and unlike most of the beach, no fees were required to loiter there, which perhaps explained why the younger population of this minor Italian seaside resort were using it as a flirting ground.

Simon’s note had only contained two scrawled words - Viareggio, park. Sherlock had done the research as best he could at an internet terminal at the airport and then a café in the town. The only person in Viareggio with a likely – if unproven – record with Moriarty was a retired Mafia don, eighty if he was a day, who lived in one of the gated villas that surrounded the south edge of this park. Sherlock strolled towards the unfrequented, shadowed, section of the park, away from the noise behind him. There were a few couples walking here, caught up in each other. He scanned everyone he passed, but no-one looked like a convincing candidate for Mycroft’s hired gun.

He slipped from the path as soon as it cleared of people, removing and pocketing his glasses to pick his way to the wall, checking his surroundings carefully. It was darker here, and seemingly empty. Cicadas scraped in the trees, and tinny music came faintly from behind him. He paused to picture the street on the other side of the wall, and then moved on, confident that he was approaching the back of the correct villa.

There – something he’d half-expected to find – a small gate opening into the park. A back way out, or somewhere that the owner might come for a smoke under the peaceful trees, or as a short-cut through to the main thoroughfare of the town. When Sherlock looked closely, even in the darkness he could see the faint trace of a track from the gate through the trees, an area more clear of leaves where passing feet had moved them.

The front of the house had been like a fortress. To reach an elderly man who barely left the house, according to the gossip between one of his carers and the café owner this morning, this entrance was the most feasible, perhaps the only feasible, way to gain access. He could see a CCTV camera on the wall, trained on the gate. It didn’t look operational, though it was hard to tell without coming into its range. He looked about him, moved to three trees clustered together, where the shadows already fell thick but he had a clear sightline to the doorway, and settled in to wait.

***

Under other circumstances, John would have enjoyed being in Italy. Pizza, wine, good coffee. He could have come here with Sherlock. Not to this town of course, Sherlock would have despised its holiday atmosphere, the herds of Italian and German tourists prone on their sunbeds, the sparkle of the sea. Somewhere a bit more like London, with a bit more history, culture – Rome, maybe. John had never been. Probably he’d end up there some day, if he lasted that long. Moriarty had apparently got along very well with the Italians.

His instructions had been straightforward. Park, back corner of, back door, owner liked to step under the trees for his last cigarette of the day, leaning on the arm of one of his young and pretty carers, before he had his nightcap. John was here to mess up some deal or spread general confusion by injuring the old man – which was good, as he wasn’t enthused about killing an elderly man no matter how many atrocities he had committed back in his youth. Step out of the shadows – or better yet, never leave them – quick shot to the ankle, hope that the nurse wasn’t armed and faster and him, and make a rapid exit to mingle with crowds on the promenade beside the seafront.

The park was dry and dusty rather than cool and green, and John felt nothing but weary distaste for the tanned, flirting couples he passed. He was too hot in his jacket and his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. He wished he’d thought to carry some water; there were a few stalls still open selling ice-cream and candyfloss and sweets but nothing sensible. Most were packing up for the night, reluctant children being towed off to bed, teenagers drifting towards the bars on the street outside. Best just get this over with.

He set off at a steady stride towards his destination. People were drifting towards the lights as dusk fell, and the outer reaches of the park were almost dark already. There was the back wall: John paused to work out where the door would be, according to the detailed map included in his file, looked cautiously around him, and then cut across, through some trees, until he was nearly under the pale wall, higher than his head. He needed to be fifty metres or so to the left, by his best reckoning. He peered through the gloom under the trees. No giggling couples or gangs of teenagers to be seen, no sound other than the increasing din of the cicadas in the trees above.

***

Sherlock tensed at the sound of someone approaching, holding himself very still. Either they had no interest in a stealthy approach or they were simply incompetent: he could hear them crunching across the grass, and if he looked through the branches, see a dim figure moving purposefully along the wall, blurred in the fading light. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to go until the time Simon had specified. He slid a knife out of his pocket and flicked the blade open. It would have been more convenient to have a gun, but he hadn’t had the time to arrange it. And in any case, as long as he sounded convincing enough, it was now too dark for anyone to see what he might or might not be holding.

***

John stumbled over a tree root and swore to himself. It was a lot blacker in the shade of the wall than he’d anticipated: night fell faster, here, than it would have done in Britain. His small torch would be too visible. There was the door, he could see that there was a light above it, though it wasn’t switched on. He’d better find somewhere behind a tree to wait – he took a few steps closer, slipping his gun out of his pocket, considering angles for a neat shot.

“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot,” said an unmistakable voice from the darkness behind him.

***

“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot,” said Sherlock, pitching his voice to carry. The figure froze, back to him. A shortish, slightly stocky, blond-haired man. Sherlock watched him intently. Ideally this would end in negotiation, not violence, but a spot of violence would also be acceptable, if needs be.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” said the man from the shadows.

Sherlock’s breath stopped. That his mind would do this to him, his mind that had already noted, filed and as usual dismissed the many ways in which the size and movements of this man recalled John Watson – it was intolerable. He could not be this broken. Before he had consciously planned it, he found himself moving swiftly, knife in hand, closing the distance; the man half-turned, defensive, but Sherlock had the advantage of height and surprise and he got an arm round his neck, and shoved him against the nearest tree, knife grazing his throat. Surprisingly, he didn’t put up a fight. Sherlock wanted to cut his throat, leave, and never visit this country again. He felt himself shaking.

“I’ve dropped my gun,” said the man, in John’s accent, John’s voice. “You can put away that knife - Sherlock, fucking hell, tell me it’s you.” He swallowed; Sherlock felt the movement, against the edge of his blade. “It’s me, John – I’m alive, I – “

His voice cut off as Sherlock pressed his knife and himself closer. He bent his head down, his body remembering the precise distance and angle to move in order to kiss John under his ear. He inhaled. Cheap shampoo, standard Italian hotel soap, traces of ammonia, clean sweat, and underneath that…underneath that, John. The man beneath him was breathing hard, swallowing convulsively; Sherlock’s hand was tight around the knife as though it were an anchor, feeling through it the movements of his throat. He closed his eyes and ran down the stairs in his mind palace, into the office where Mycroft stood behind his desk, smiling sardonically, his hand on the shoulder of an unmarked John Watson. Sherlock didn’t need to ask: he looked at him and the truth unfolded within him, shaping its new pathways, overwriting the months past with stunning force.

There was a sound to one side, it took Sherlock three heartbeats to place it as a key turning in the door in the wall. In his momentary distraction the man – John – shoved suddenly back against him, almost unbalancing him, elbow driven back into his side and then a hand up and a practiced twist to his wrist, and Sherlock dropped the knife and stumbled back a pace; John turning.

“Get _back_ ,” he said, pulling Sherlock behind the tree, into relative cover.

The door opened. Two figures came out, one leaning heavily on the arm of another. Sherlock didn’t even try to bring them into focus. The man beside him, who had dropped his arm but was still almost touching him, making obvious attempts to still his breathing; it was John, but not, John with an indefinable difference, distance; a tension in the way he held himself that was at once unfamiliar and familiar. Sherlock tried to gather himself together. A tremor ran through him, surprising him.

“My gun, fucking hell,” said John, very quietly. “Can you – ” Sherlock felt as much as saw his head turn a little – “can you run? We need to get out of here.” He paused. “Unless you’re here to – “

To what?, Sherlock wondered. He nodded. There was a flare of a lighter by the door, and a female voice, saying something soothing and chiding. If she switched the light above the door on, they would very probably be visible, as would a gun and a knife, lying somewhere on the ground.

“Right,” said John. He took a sharp breath. “ _Go_.”

He took off and Sherlock followed – crashing through the park with no ear to the response of the man and woman behind them. Shouldn’t their positions be reversed, Sherlock thought, wildly, should they not be running on stone pavements lined with London plane trees, down a cobbled alleyway, weight of his coat flying behind him… they were coming to the path, to the still-lighted part of the park. John slowed, put out a cautious, almost apologetic hand to halt Sherlock, scanned the path and then stepped out onto it, rapidly heading towards the lights. He was trying to look sideways at Sherlock without being too obtrusive, keeping him in the corner of his eye.

Sherlock fell into step beside him.

“So,” he said, admiring the evenness of his voice. “Mycroft.”

“He sent you?“ said John. He sounded disbelieving, but Sherlock didn’t miss the note of hope.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Someone else. He doesn’t know. Yet. I meant –“

“Yes,” said John. He wetted his lips, Sherlock saw with a small jolt of recognition. “His idea. Not that I’m –” Sherlock looked away quickly, and felt his glance, on the side of his face. “Can we -  I left my gun back there, and your knife has both our prints on it, fuck, I wasn’t thinking – we can’t talk here, Sherlock. Come to my hotel. Please. I need to, to explain – “

The bleached hair really didn’t suit him. Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes: he wanted to stop, to see what colour they were now. He wanted to see every inch of John’s body, to check the changes for himself. He wanted to listen to everything John had to say.

And he wanted to lengthen his stride, to walk out of the park and away.

He inclined his head, briefly, staring straight ahead, and heard John let out a breath beside him.

“OK,” John said. “OK,” and they walked out of the park together into the drawing night.

***

Sherlock emerged from a futile discussion with Mycroft – John standing behind him in a suit made by Mycroft’s personal tailor, arms folded and expression impassive – to find the real John fumbling with his key, dropping it and cursing softly. He blinked. He hadn’t spoken again on their walk through the bustling streets and into the quieter squares of the old town, only marginally present. John in his mind had been smooth, cold. John, beside him and close enough to touch, had new lines and shadows around his eyes. He was more tanned than he had been, in London, but he looked worn. His eyes were brown: anyone looking closely could have told that it was artificial.

Sherlock felt something stirring, painful, in his chest. The key finally turned in the lock, and John pushed his way into the room. Sherlock followed, carefully closing the door and then leaning against it. John set the key down with a click on the bedside table, and stripped off his thin jacket, turning to Sherlock with his face set in grim lines.

He opened his mouth and was saying something. Sherlock didn’t hear, he was looking at John’s arms, the thin white tan line where the sleeves of his T-shirt ended, at the curve of his shoulder and neck under the soft material. The feeling rose through him, stronger. John had stopped talking, he realised, and he raised his eyes to meet his, with a shock of connection that made him blink. John stopped talking abruptly, his lips parted. His eyes were the wrong colour.

“Take them out,” Sherlock said. “Those – “ he gestured, “lenses”. He sounded hoarse in his own ears.

John’s lips parted as if to speak, but he didn’t say anything. He lowered his head slightly and raised his hands to his right eye; a deft familiar movement, repeated on the left, and he let the crumpled fragments of plastic drop and met Sherlock’s eyes again, exposed.

Sherlock breathed, and swallowed. John’s arms, his hands – he was standing there, breathing hard, _watching_ Sherlock – and it was unbearable. Sherlock moved from the door, or perhaps John moved at the same time, and Sherlock had a confused notion that when he gripped John’s arms John braced as though expecting a blow, but by that time Sherlock was already kissing him, hard, pushing John back against the bed with the force of it.

John gasped, and then his hand came up to hold on to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and he was returning the kiss, with equal force; their mouths opening. The pain at Sherlock’s heart did not ease, he kissed John harder, trying to lose himself. Desire, lust: his body remembered John’s, remembered fiercely; this was easy, he knew how this went; he could slide a leg between John’s and press their bodies together, feeling John harden against him; he could let the promise in John’s mouth, in the expertise of his kiss, coalesce into want, strong and pure. John pulled at him, as graceless as Sherlock, tugging him down to lie on the bed with him, unspeaking and desperate.  

Sherlock wrenched his mouth away and kissed or bit at John’s shoulder, pushing at the T-shirt material impatiently. He could not look at John. His body was reacting predictably to feeling John’s live warmth against him, under him; and he pressed closer despite himself, feeling John make a sound above him. He bit at John’s neck and then kissed it, and John made another choked-off sound, and under his mouth he felt roughened skin, damaged and healed, barely visible.

He pushed himself up, abruptly, removing his hand from where it had strayed to John’s hip, and touching his neck with the tips of his fingers, lightly. John lay very still, looking up at Sherlock with a complicated expression that he didn’t try to read. Sherlock shivered. All his knowledge, impersonal and personal, that brutal knowledge which hadn’t let him shut out awareness of how John must have died, how he would have looked, all the dreams in which John came to him before, after, in which he had to watch…all these hours and days and months, and he had never thought of this. He had trusted. He had been blind, and his brother and the man on this bed with him had watched him and seen –

He became aware that the sensations moving through him were condensing into emotions that could be named, though not ones he had experienced in many years in quite this form: anger, hurt, a child’s feeling of injustice. John was about to say something, or to touch him again, and suddenly, that would be intolerable.

***

John watched Sherlock’s face change, his fingertips ghosting over the marks that no-one else had recognized for what they were, and then Sherlock abruptly distentangled himself and stood up, back to John. The mix of exhilaration, sheer happiness and sick fear that had been growing ever since he heard Sherlock’s voice, disbelieving, in the darkness, returned in full force.

He had been preparing and rejecting explanations and excuses all the way to the hotel, with Sherlock forbiddingly pale and silent beside him, evidently far withdrawn into his mind palace. John had imagined this scene before, of course, but it was different with Sherlock so very much _there_. He had screwed up badly in the park, too taken aback to do more than try to get them away, somewhere where he could see Sherlock, look him in the face, check that he was real. How had he found John, and who had sent him? And for what ends? He had said, not Mycroft, but who else could it be? John had been half-certain that Mycroft Holmes would be waiting in the hotel room, legs crossed, ready to outline the next stage of his plan. Perhaps it was even what he had been hoping for.

Had he expected this? When Sherlock met his eyes, when he stepped forward, Sherlock had looked – the only word that John could think of was devastated. He was thinner, far thinner, than when John had – had last seen him, stumbling as he walked from the graveside; he looked pale, unhealthy, as though he hadn’t seen the sun in months; beautiful as always yet brittle.  John felt dread settling again: he wanted Sherlock, God, how he wanted him, to hold him and make him realise how much John had missed him, had longed for him. But even though Sherlock was only a few inches from him, he didn’t know what he could say to make this situation right. The line of Sherlock’s back was forbidding.

“I have to go,” Sherlock said. He ran a hand through his hair, and half-turned towards John, looking past him to the wall and curtained window.

“Can I – I’d like to explain,” John said. He pushed himself up, to sit on the bed; lying down felt like a disadvantage. He sounded feeble even to himself. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s gaze skittered over John and away. “I need to plan,” he said to the wall. “And no doubt you have to _report_.”

John flinched. “Fuck that,” he said. “I have to, to _explain_ it to you, Sherlock. You can’t just take off. We need to talk.” He cursed himself for the cliché. If Sherlock tried to leave, maybe he should – grab him, physically _make_ him stay, no doubt that would help his case…

Sherlock was taking his wallet out of his back pocket. He extracted something and tossed it onto the bed, a gesture that felt like contempt. “The café opposite,” he said stiffly. “One hour.” He hesitated for a second, and then before John could gather his wits and pick up the card he was gone, door closing quietly behind him.

John looked at the card and felt a rush of relief at seeing the name of a local hotel. He had genuinely thought for a moment that Sherlock might walk out, leaving no address, had already imagined searching for him through the streets, the station, the trains leaving for any number of distant cities, airports…

Of course, Sherlock still could. There was no sign of what had happened between them, no evidence that he had ever been there. John knew, rationally, he had to give Sherlock some time, that it was right to leave him to process, to work something out. He had kissed John with passion and desperation, had stared at him with such hunger. But that didn’t mean he might not regret what had just happened, his quick mind running through all the many ways in which John had – betrayed him, that was how he would think of it, however John might justify his choices.

He’d given John a hotel name, but by now he could be anywhere, deciding, perhaps, that it would be easier not to come back. John stood up in a sudden panic: Jesus, he should run after him, beg for forgiveness in the street if that was what it took, it would be just like Sherlock to disappear without even hearing what John had to say for himself. But by now Sherlock would be out of the front door and lost in the narrow streets around them. Pursuing him was useless, worse than useless. One hour, he had said. Fine. John would wash, change into the clothes that most resembled something John Watson might once have worn. He would leave out the lenses he’d been dutifully wearing, that matched his new passport photo. He would send in a brief report about the failure of today’s plan – unfortunately Sherlock had been right, and not having done so yet was already suspicious if anyone was paying close attention – and then he would do all he could to resurrect the past. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this the end of Part 1, but without a guarantee that I'll ever find the time for Part 2. Note that this chapter verges on explicit, though it didn't seem explicit enough to me to warrant raising the rating on the whole story. 
> 
> With thanks to the reading221b group: lively discussion of something I wrote is the best possible inspiration for continuing to write, and made me return to this fic, and others.

Sherlock ‘s hotel, if it was really where he was staying, had a café-bar at the front, and as John scanned it he could see Sherlock sitting alone at a table by the window, staring at a laptop screen. He paused in the street, composing himself. The many recent times in which he had hovered across the street from a mark, from a suspect, were very present to his mind, and he was acutely conscious of the missing weight of his gun. He had sent an email to Mycroft’s team stating that he had encountered a minor problem and would speak to them tomorrow. If anyone _were_ suspicious, this was extremely unlikely to allay their suspicions.

At any minute, Sherlock would look up and see John watching him: the thought propelled him across the street, making a conscious effort to hold his shoulders back and walk tall. He felt intensely self-conscious, walking in, going to the bar, ordering and paying for a coffee, even though Sherlock didn’t so much as glance up. John sat down opposite him, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him quickly, and then away. It was the only acknowledgement he gave.

John considered a number of openings, then gave up. “What are you working on?” he said.

Sherlock did look up at him then, with what John could only read as contempt.

“On _this_ ,” he said, gesturing loosely at the space between them.

“Oh,” said John. “Right. I – can I…help?”

“Who is your primary contact in Mycroft’s organization?” said Sherlock, businesslike, fingers moving swiftly over the keys.

“Umm, it varies,” said John.  He stirred his coffee, thinking. “I’ve never met any of them. There’s one guy though – Simon? – he’s the most friendly, if you could say that. He told me when you were – back in London.”

Sherlock’s typing paused, and his face tightened. “Of course,” he said.

John bit his lip. “Can we talk?” he said, quietly.

“We are talking.” Sherlock resumed typing.

John rubbed his forehead. A cold weight had settled in his chest, and his lungs felt tight. Sherlock was still very pointedly not looking at him, not meeting his eyes.

“OK,” he said. “I’m going to talk. Sherlock, when Mycroft came up with this plan I hated it, I really fucking hated it, but I couldn’t see another way out. I know you were going to Moriarty – I know you _went_ to him –  and Mycroft persuaded me - ”

He paused. He could hear the note of self-justification in his voice.

“It doesn’t matter how. It was my choice to agree to his plan, and I didn’t really expect to survive it. Probably that was the stupidest choice I’ve ever made – but it seemed like the only way.” He looked at Sherlock, at the lines at the corner of his eyes, his mouth compressed.

“I tried to contact you,” he said. “My note was intercepted. Your phone isn’t working, or your emails, or your blog. I didn’t have any news about you, I didn’t know where you were. I’m not _you_ , Sherlock, I couldn’t think of a way out. Before – us – I’ve thought about the last year all the time, I realised some stuff I hadn’t thought about before, that I – I know I’ve fucked everything up. Christ. I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock swung the laptop round to face him.

“Is this an accurate list?” he said.

John swallowed. For a horrible few seconds he thought he might be close to tears, to pleading, and then he was able to take a steadying breath and frown at the screen. Places, names, even dates and specific times, itemized by number and in order, all glaringly familiar.

“The first five, yes,” he said. He read a moment longer, and then pointed. “This one, no. I was never in Marseille, and I haven’t seen that name before.”

He looked up and for the first time Sherlock was looking at him directly, intent, searching his face.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yes,” said John. He wanted to ask, but didn’t. Some sort of test, perhaps.

Sherlock studied him another moment, a crease on his forehead, then he nodded, imperceptibly.

“The others?” he said.

John read down the list again. “That’s everything. How did you get these?”

Sherlock’s lip curled. “I identified most of them,” he said. He turned the screen back to face him. “Riga,” he said. “You didn’t shoot him. It’s an open investigation; all the rest are closed.”

John blinked. Riga. Shit. How much did Sherlock know? He’d reported that the guy had been dead when he got there – fuck, Sherlock had been _working_ on this stuff, working on _John_ , what if he knew about Alison? 

There was no point in lying, not if he ever hoped to sort any of this out. Sherlock always knew when he was lying, in any case. He took a deep breath.

“Someone else shot him,” he said. “A woman. I don’t know what the fuck she was, an assassin or something. We – I met her later, but she didn’t give me any information. And then we had…a one-night thing. It’s not relevant, I just - I don’t know if you care or not, but I’m not going to lie to you about anything, not any more.”

Sherlock’s lips were pressed together. His fingers tapped on the table. Then he met John’s eyes and John almost flinched at the coldness of his expression.

“It would be hypocritical of me to care,” he said. He dropped John’s gaze, scrolling down the list on his laptop.

It took John a moment, then he was unable to prevent the feelings of fury and sick jealousy that swept through him. And fear: he hadn’t thought, since seeing Sherlock, but all those vivid dreams he’d had of returning to London and finding that Sherlock had replaced him, that he had another lover, rushed back into his head.

“You mean, you – Can I ask who?”

Sherlock shut the laptop screen, decisive, and slid it into his bag. Then he folded his hands deliberately on the table, looking down at them.

“After your – disappearance, Mycroft shipped me off to the French countryside with some minders. I ran away to the city. Marseille.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I resumed some old habits, and those habits require income. So I earned money where I could. I’m afraid that even if you _cared_ about the details, I can barely remember many of them.”

John took a sip of his coffee, mainly to stop his hands from closing into fists. Marseille. He hadn’t recognized the name on the list – a man – who had he been, or who was he to Sherlock? With every fibre of his being he wanted to stand up and pull Sherlock to him, to hold him close, to break through his icy reserve. Then, hot on the heels of this thought, came guilt. Sherlock had done this because of John, because of John’s death – he should have thought, how had he not understood what Sherlock was likely to do –  and then rage, both at Sherlock and at Mycroft, for letting him, and for not even fucking telling John that Sherlock had done this, been doing this.

“How did you – stop?” he said, as evenly as he could manage. Christ, what if Sherlock _hadn’t_ stopped…?

“Mycroft found me. A few weeks. I wasn’t – I don’t need it, now. But I want – wanted – it.” Sherlock’s tone turned vicious. “I was trying to _forget you_.”

John breathed deeply. He had no idea what his face was showing.

“And I couldn’t. _I_ couldn’t. You have _no idea_ , no idea what it was like. No idea what I’ve done, what I would have done.”

“Tell me, then,” said John, urgently, but Sherlock wasn’t listening.

“You let my brother turn you into his pet monkey, you run around Europe playing at being a soldier, fucking women – is this what you wanted, John? The freedom to kill with the satisfaction of doing exactly as you’re told? Is that what you’ve always wanted, from me, from _us_?”

“ _No –_ Sherlock, for fuck’s sake. I never wanted this. I wanted to keep you safe, to keep you alive, I would’ve done anything, and Mycroft said – “

“Mycroft said.” Sherlock’s face was still again, but John knew him well enough to see the control that was involved. He pushed back his chair and stood.

“Don’t follow me,” he said, without meeting John’s eyes, and then he was pulling his bag over his shoulder and striding out of the door with his usual drama, the familiarity causing John’s heart to skip in pleasure even as he felt it was breaking.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, and put his head in his hands.

 

***

Sherlock didn’t come back to the hotel. John waited, slowly drinking most of a bottle of wine by himself, until they threw him out, at 2am, when he was the only person seated in a forest of upturned chairs. He didn’t know whether Sherlock had a room at this hotel. Enquiries at the desk produced blank looks and shrugs. He stood on the street for half an hour, an hour, and then he went back to his hotel room and waited, and Sherlock still didn’t come. John paced, composing imaginary conversations that all went better than reality. He cursed himself for bringing up Alison, for speaking at all. He thought about phoning Mycroft. Then he hated himself more for the thought: that he had become dependent on Mycroft, waiting around for his judgement, his help, just as Sherlock had said. But he would have to have some kind of story to report back, he’d need a new gun, he ought to have packed up and left as it was, but if he did, how could he contact Sherlock?

His thoughts circled, until at around five he gave up and got into bed. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep, but he must have drifted off, because he startled awake at a noise, hand automatically stretching out towards a weapon that wasn’t there before he even registered that it was his door closing.

“Don’t move,” said Sherlock’s voice.

John, twisting to pull himself out of bed and to his feet, froze. His vision was blurred in the thin grey light of dawn that was seeping through the blinds; he blinked, trying to bring Sherlock, leaning against the door, into focus.

“And don’t _talk_ ,” Sherlock added.

There was an intensity to his tone, but John was too dazed with tension and half-asleep to identify what it signalled. He licked his lips and shifted in the bed, propping himself up on one elbow so as to keep Sherlock in sight. He was dimly aware of a painful flood of relief, irrespective of what Sherlock might have come to say or do.

Sherlock took the one step that separated him from the foot of the bed, swung off his coat and dropped it, heeled off his shoes, and sat down, swivelling towards John, his eyes flicking over him. John swallowed. The memory of earlier, of desire and frustration, nudged him, and he was conscious that the sheets had slipped off his chest and that he was only wearing his boxer shorts.

“Turn over and close your eyes,” Sherlock commanded, without ever returning John’s gaze, and John found himself obeying. He breathed into the cheap cotton of the pillowcase, eyes squeezed shut, unable to stop his back and shoulders from tensing.

Sherlock always had been…bossy, demanding, in bed, but not like this. If this was even about sex, which wasn’t clear. Well. If what he wanted was John quiet and compliant, if that would help to make up for everything, if it would even keep Sherlock in his hotel room, for any space of time, then John would do what he was told, and Sherlock could do whatever the fuck he wanted; anything, everything.

He thought Sherlock sighed, and then he felt the weight on the bed shift, Sherlock’s trousers brushed against his legs, he sensed Sherlock braced above him, not quite touching, and he tensed further, biting his lip.

Sherlock’s mouth came down on his neck, just under his ear, deliberately on the spot he had kissed earlier in the day. John hissed out a breath through his teeth. His hands fisted. Sherlock kissed down his neck: hard, open-mouthed kisses, almost biting. John shifted and then stilled. He was terrified that one wrong movement, one wrong sound, and Sherlock would be fully dressed and gone - this time forever – before John had had time to grab him and beg him to stay.

Sherlock kissed his way downwards slowly and methodically, along the length of John’s spine, his hair brushing John’s skin. John could hear him breathing. There were no signs of affection, no caresses, in his progress, and John distantly thought that perhaps he should find this worrying, but he was too distracted by a combination of anxiety and growing arousal. The fearful uncertainty that he felt, that he knew he felt, was being translated by his confused body as desire, and his cock was hardening at the thought of where this seemed to be going.

Sherlock paused at the base of his spine, and abruptly rubbed his cheek against John’s boxer shorts, and then his fingers caught in their waistband and he was easing them down John’s legs and away. John made a noise, muffled by the pillow. Sherlock returned, so that John thought he could feel the heat of his body just a few inches away, and breathed out against him, giving John goose-pimples. John felt him move on the bed, and then his hot breath against John’s arse, followed for the first time by his hand, trailing down and barely across.

John groaned. Sherlock had never fucked him, in that way. He had never asked, probably because he knew John wouldn’t have been keen. If he wanted to now – John felt a qualm at the thought, though he knew he would say yes. But Sherlock’s hand trailed lower, stroking between John’s thighs. John parted them without thinking and felt Sherlock kiss his inner thigh. His face heated. Sherlock’s breath was warm and maddening on his skin, and he couldn’t help moving a little, thrusting against the sheets.

Then Sherlock drew back and he had a moment of panic, before the sheets were pulled down further and Sherlock was kissing down his leg, one hand left still stroking his thigh, maddening. Sherlock stopped at his ankle, though his hand still moved, and John shut his mouth hard on the begging that wanted to come out and tried not to rut against the bed.

“Turn over,” said Sherlock, and John was relieved to hear that his voice was lower, more ragged than it had been. He did so, ungracefully, and opened his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling over him, beautiful and intimidating in the dim light. John would usually have felt embarrassed at being naked and erect, Sherlock still fully dressed, but he wanted to show Sherlock that he could have everything, that John was _his_ , and so he held himself still, closing his eyes again and waiting. He heard an intake of breath, felt a rush of air, and that was his only warning before Sherlock closed his mouth around his cock, at the same time sliding one hand under him to tease at his arse.

John made a shocked noise, and lifted his hand automatically to fist in Sherlock’s curls, before thinking better of it and dropping it back to the sheets. God, he’d forgotten, how could he possibly have forgotten how fucking perfect Sherlock’s mouth was, his tongue flickering, the way he seemed to gauge exactly where John was most sensitive and tease him with it.

Sherlock’s other arm was pinning his hips, or he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself thrusting. He wanted Sherlock inside him, he wanted to be inside Sherlock, he wanted this never to stop and at the same time he didn’t think he could bear much more. Sherlock pulled off and moved his hand to steady John’s cock, then bent again to suck on John fiercely, and though he wanted to hold out for longer, John felt everything dissolving into sensation, a rush towards climax that he was helpless to stop. He tried to say something incoherent and then he was coming, tears leaking from his closed eyes, Sherlock’s mouth moving on him throughout.

***

Sherlock sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth and staring at John, alive and indisputably here, his face still flushed with pleasure, spread out before him like an offering. He had come here, after hours of pacing the streets and determining not to. He wasn’t sure why, except that he had been unable to stay away, away from the knowledge of John’s living body, its flesh and tissues, its muscles and nerves, all the responses he had spent so many past months cataloguing despite himself, all the parts that made up a whole that no-one else could ever replicate. He could not bear more of John’s weak justifications, his need to explain himself, but he had wanted him, purely and simply. Or not want, but need – he had _needed_ to touch John, taste his skin, prove that John was whole and unblemished. And _mine_ , his mind added, without his permission.

John moved, frowning, and Sherlock considered, in a moment of terror, jumping from the bed and walking out, perhaps never to come back. He was still dressed, it was possible.

“May I…is it OK if I say something?” said John, somewhat croakily. His eyes were still shut, though the effort this was taking was palpable in the tension around them.

“You already are,” said Sherlock, finding that his voice was hoarse and his tone uncertain.

“OK,” said John. “That was….amazing, and you know, I would – I want to do whatever you want. Anything, Sherlock. I mean it.”

It was impossible not to be aware of what John was offering, and for a moment Sherlock wanted to take advantage of it. He could fuck John – God, it would be so good, hard and perfect, and John at this moment would take it, take whatever Sherlock had to give. But he knew _why_ John was offering.

“No,” he said. He closed his own eyes for an instant, and sighed. He was hard, it was distracting. He ran a hand over his erection, almost stroking it, and frowned.

John was looking at him, he sensed. He opened his eyes and met John’s gaze. John looked at Sherlock, touching himself, and Sherlock thought he could see John’s eyes darken. It sent a pulse through him, and he pressed harder.

“I really, really want to do that for you,” John said quietly.

Sherlock removed his hand and leant back further, bracing himself on both hands. It felt like a concession, but his body yearned towards John’s hands, his touch. He nodded, in case John’s slower brain needed any more indication than Sherlock’s current position.

John propped himself up, slowly and awkwardly, searching Sherlock’s face, and then reached for Sherlock’s fly and flicked open the button, one-handed. Sherlock couldn’t stop the hitch in his breathing, or the small involuntary thrust. John was biting his lip, intense. He leaned up further, shoved Sherlock’s trousers and pants out of the way as best he could, and then got a hand on him. Sherlock tipped his head back and looked at the nondescript ceiling, screwing up his face. John moved his hand, a little jerkily.

“I need you, God, I need more,” said John. “Will you lie down, I can’t, at this angle…”

Sherlock nodded, blindly, and let John guide him down onto the bed and then crawl over him, not hovering above as he had, in his turn, but pressing down on Sherlock with all his warm solid weight. John tucked his head into Sherlock’s shoulder, bit at his neck, pushed up a bit to lick one palm and then moved just enough so that he could take a firm hold of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock stifled a cry, and John, his grip maddeningly perfect and familiar, moved up and without Sherlock intending or willing it was kissing him, deeply, for minutes or an age, and Sherlock was kissing him back, feeling himself shaking apart with pleasure and relief in John’s arms.

***

As Sherlock’s breathing evened out, John thought about rolling away, from his sprawl across Sherlock’s body. He knew, as he came back to himself, that sex did not make everything all right. He’d had plenty of angry sex, break-up sex, last-effort sex, and he had no idea how to classify what had just happened. He couldn’t bear to move, but he forced himself to the side, leaving one arm loosely across Sherlock. Sherlock, who had kissed him back, who was still here, an unexpected miracle.

Sherlock stretched, beside him. “You’re right,” he said. “This doesn’t mean that –”

“I know,” John said.

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” said Sherlock, matter-of-fact.

“But you can’t forgive me,” said John. It felt like a lead weight in his stomach, this assurance.

Sherlock was silent for what felt like minutes.

“I will never forgive _this_ ,” he said. “You….you blamed my brother. I know how persuasive he can be.” John winced at the bitterness in that. “Your behaviour… I should have predicted this. I _could_ have predicted it, but I never thought that Mycroft would….”

John tightened his arm on Sherlock’s stomach.

“I shouldn’t have listened to him,” he said.

“And then where would you have been? I shot James Moriarty because he told me you were dead, and I could see he believed it. I would not – necessarily – have done so, without that….stimulus. You were right about me. _Mycroft_ was right about me, except his unconscionable failure to realise the lengths to which I would go to escape, after you…”

“All of this is my fault,” said John. “My fault in the first place, because I knew that Sebastian Moran was a fucking psycho and I still went on that trip with him. I didn’t stop him, and I didn’t stop you. And fuck knows, the stuff I’ve done in the last few months…”

“Stop that,” said Sherlock, sitting up and looming over him. “As I have already made perfectly clear, I _provided_ those names, in most cases. I did the research. Perfect for Mycroft, having you and I as a team but without the messy emotional baggage.”

“Is that what it was?” said John. “You know…” He felt a pang of doubt, more worry about scaring Sherlock off, but this might be his only chance. “When I was in prison, I realised that I shouldn’t have taken this” – he gestured between them – “so…lightly. I acted like it was all a bit of fun, but I…well. I was in love with you, I think. Am, that is.”

Sherlock frowned down at him. “That solves nothing,” he said.

“That wasn’t why I said it. “

Sherlock looked away. John, panicking, tried to will him not to leave.

“One of the people on that list was my…I knew him,” Sherlock said.

What list?, John nearly said, thrown, then he remembered, as from an untold age ago, the café, identifying the names.

“The man from Marseille?” he said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “We were at school together. He was a very successful drug dealer, by the measures that apply in that trade, and I don’t believe that his death, if he is dead, was a coincidence. It…caught my attention, at a crucial moment, but I very much doubt the person who brought it to my attention was involved. Lucien had no involvement whatsoever with Moriarty, but he was involved with me. And Mycroft’s concern for my well-being has frequently manifested itself in…disturbing ways.”

“OK,” said John, cautiously.

“I need to confirm his death and who killed him,” said Sherlock. “Because if I find out that it was my brother…”

John waited.

“They will look for you,” said Sherlock. “If you’re caught, by Mycroft or the police, I can’t protect you. At the most optimistic estimate we have forty-eight hours.”

We, thought John, and his heart lifted.

“Then we should go right now,” he said, and for the first time, Sherlock smiled at him.


End file.
